THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE 


. •«».  — »    """"* 


BY   STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  WOLF.  A  Romance.  With  Frontis- 
piece and  Vignette.  Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE.  A  Romance.  With 
four  Illustrations.  Crown  8vo,  $1.25. 

A  GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE.  Being  the  Memoirs  of  Gaston 
de  Bonne,  Sieur  de  Marsac.  With  Frontispiece  and  Vignette. 
Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

UNDER  THE  RED  ROBE.  With  twelve  full-page  Illustrations. 
Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

MY  LADY  ROTHA.  A  Romance  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War. 
With  eight  Illustrations.  Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

FROM  THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  MINISTER  OF  FRANCE. 
With  thirty-six  Illustrations.  Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

SHREWSBURY.  A  Romance.  With  twenty-four  Illustration*. 
Crown  8vo,  $1.50. 

THE  RED  COCKADE.  A  Novel.  With  48  illustrations  by  R. 
Caton  Woodville.  Crown  8vo,  $1.50. 


New  York:  LONGMANS,  GREEN.  AND  Co. 


THE     STORY 


OF 


FRANCIS   CLUDDE 


BY 


STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN 

AUTHOR    OF    "A   GENTLEMAN   OF    FRANCE,"    "UNDER   THE   RED    ROBE, 
"MY    LADY    ROTHA,"    ETC.,    ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 
LONGMANS,  GREEN,  AND  CO. 

1898 


COPYRIGHT,  1891,  BY 
CASSELL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1897,  BY 
LONGMANS,  GREEN,  AND  CO. 

All  rights  reserved 


CONTENTS. 


I.  "  HE,  SIRE  ANE,  HE," i 

II.  IN  THE  BISHOP'S  ROOM, 13 

III.  "  DOWN  WITH  PURVEYORS!" 24 

IV.  Two  SISTERS  OF  MERCY, 35 

V.  MISTRESS  BERTRAM, '     .        .47 

VI.  MASTER  CLARENCE,       ..'.,...         59 

VII.  ON  BOARD  THE  "  FRAMLINGHAM," 69 

VIII.  A  HOUSE  OF  PEACE, t        .        82 

IX.  PLAYING  WITH  FIRE, 93 

X.  THE  FACE  IN  THE  PORCH,     .....         .      106 

XI.  A  FOUL  BLOW, 117 

XII.  ANNE'S  PETITION,          .        .        .        .         .        .        .129 

XIII.  A  WILLFUL  MAN'S  WAY, 141 

XIV.  AT  BAY  IN  THE  GATEHOUSE, 155 

XV.  BEFORE  THE  COURT, 169 

XVI.  IN  THE  DUKE'S  NAME, 180 

XVII.  A  LETTER  THAT  HAD  MANY  ESCAPES,  ....  192 
XVIII.  THE  WITCH'S  WARNING 202 

XIX.  FERDINAND  CLUDDE, 215 

XX.  THE  COMING  QUEEN,  .......  227 

XXI.  MY  FATHER,     .........  239 

XXII.  SIR  ANTHONY'S  PURPOSE,  .....  e  249 

XXIII.  THE  LAST  MASS 259 

XXIV.  AWAITING  THE  BLOW,  „        .        .  270 
XXV.  IN  HARBOR  AT  LAST,        .....                .283 


THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"H£,  SIRE    ANE,   H6!" 

ON  the  boundary  line  between  the  two  counties  of  War- 
wick and  Worcester  there  is  a  road  very  famous  in 
those  parts,  and  called  the  Ridgeway.  Father  Carey  used 
to  say — and  no  better  Latinist  could  be  found  for  a  score  of 
miles  round  in  the  times  of  which  I  write — that  it  was  made 
by  the  Romans.  It  runs  north  and  south  along  the  narrow 
spine  of  the  country,  which  is  spread  out  on  either  side 
like  a  map,  or  a  picture.  As  you  fare  southward  you  see 
on  your  right  hand  the  green  orchards  and  pastures  of 
Worcestershire  stretching  as  far  as  the  Malvern  Hills.  You 
have  in  front  of  you  Bredon  Hill,  which  is  a  wonderful  hill, 
for  if  a  man  goes  down  the  Avon  by  boat  it  goes  with  him — 
now  before,  and  now  behind — a  whole  day's  journey — and 
then  stands  in  the  same  place.  And  on  the  left  hand  you 
have  the  great  Forest  of  Arden,  and  not  much  besides, 
except  oak  trees,  which  grow  well  in  Warwickshire. 

I  describe  this  road,  firstly,  because  it  is  a  notable  one, 
and  forty  years  ago  was  the  only  Queen's  highway,  to  call 
a  highway,  in  that  country.  The  rest  were  mere  horse- 
tracks.  Secondly,  because  the  chase  wall  of  Coton  End 
runs  along  the  side  of  it  for  two  good  miles;  and  the  Cluddes 
— I  am  Francis  Cludde — have  lived  at  Coton  End  by  the 
Ridgeway  time  out  of  mind,  probably — for  the  name  smacks 
of  the  soil — before  the  Romans  made  the  road.  And 
thirdly,  because  forty  years  ago,  on  a  drizzling  February 
day  in  1555 — second  year  of  Mary,  old  religion  just  re- 
established— a  number  of  people  were  collected  on  this 


2  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

road,  forming  a  group  of  a  score  or  more,  who  stood  in  an 
ordered  kind  of  disorder  about  my  uncle's  gates  and  looked 
all  one  way,  as  if  expecting  an  arrival,  and  an  arrival  of 
consequence. 

First,  there  was  my  uncle  Sir  Anthony,  tall  and  lean. 
He  wore  his  best  black  velvet  doublet  and  cloak,  and  had 
put  them  on  with  an  air  of  huge  importance.  This  increased 
each  time  he  turned,  staff  in  hand,  and  surveyed  his  follow- 
ing, and  as  regularly  gave  place  to  a  "Pshaw!"  of  vexation 
and  a  petulant  glance  when  his  eye  rested  on  me.  Close 
beside  him,  looking  important  too,  but  anxious  and  a  little 
frightened  as  well,  stood  good  Father  Carey.  The  priest  wore 
his  silk  cassock,  and  his  lips  moved  from  time  to  time  with- 
out sound,  as  though  he  were  trying  over  a  Latin  oration 
— which,  indeed,  was  the  fact.  At  a  more  respectful  dis- 
tance were  ranged  Baldwin  Moor,  the  steward,  and  a  dozen 
servants;  while  still  farther  away  lounged  as  many  raga- 
muffins— landless  men,  who  swarmed  about  every  gentle- 
man's door  in  those  times,  and  took  toll  of  such  abbey  lands 
as  the  king  might  have  given  him.  Against  one  of  the 
stone  gate:pillars  I  leaned  myself — nineteen  years  and  six 
months  old,  and  none  too  wise,  though  well  grown,  and  as 
strong  as  one  here  and  there.  And  perched  on  the  top  of 
the  twin  post,  with  his  chin  on  his  knees,  and  his  hands 
clasped  about  them,  was  Martin  Luther,  the  fool. 

Martin  had  chosen  this  elevated  position  partly  out  of 
curiosity,  and  partly,  perhaps,  under  a  strong  sense  of  duty. 
He  knew  that,  whether  he  would  or  no,  he  must  needs  look 
funny  up  there.  His  nose  was  red,  and  his  eyes  were  run- 
ning, and  his  teeth  chattering;  and  he  did  look  funny.  But 
as  he  felt  the  cold  most  his  patience  failed  first.  The 
steady,  silent  drizzle,  the  mist  creeping  about  the  stems  of 
the  oak  trees,  the  leaden  sky  proved  too  much  for  him  in 
the  end.  "A  watched  pot  never  boils!"  he  grumbled. 

"Silence,  sirrah!"  commanded  my  uncle  angrily.  "This 
is  no  time  for  your  fooling.  Have  a  care  how  you  talk  in 
the  same  breath  of  pots  and  my  Lord  Bishop!" 

"  Sanctce  ecclesia"  Father  Carey  broke  out,  turning  up 
his  eyes  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy,  as  though  he  were  knee  to 
knee  with  the  prelate — "te  defensorem  inclytum  atque  ar~ 
dentem ' ' 

"Poltum!"  cried  I,  laughing  loudly  at  my  own  wit. 


"HE,  SIRE  ANE,  HE!"  3 

It  was  an  ill-mannered  word,  but  I  was  cold  and  peevish. 
I  had  been  forced  to  this  function  against  my  will.  I  had 
never  seen  the  guest  whom  we  were  expecting,  and  who 
was  no  other  than  the  Queen's  Chancellor,  Stephen  Gar- 
diner, but  I  disliked  him  as  if  I  had.  In  truth,  he  was 
related  to  us  in  a  peculiar  fashion,  which  my  uncle  and  I 
naturally  looked  at  from  different  standpoints.  Sir  An- 
thony viewed  with  complacence,  if  not  with  pride,  any  con- 
nection with  the  powerful  Bishop  of  Winchester,  for  the 
knight  knew  the  world,  and  could  appreciate  the  value  it 
sets  on  success,  and  the  blind  eyes  it  has  for  spots  if  they 
do  but  speckle  the  risen  sun.  I  could  make  no  such  allow- 
ance, but,  with  the  pride  of  youth  and  family,  at  once 
despised  the  great  Bishop  for  his  base  blood,  and  blushed 
that  the  shame  lay  on  our  side.  I  hated  this  parade  of  doing 
honor  to  him,  and  would  fain  have  hidden  at  home  with 
Petronilla,  my  cousin,  Sir  Anthony's  daughter,  and  awaited 
our  guest  there.  The  knight,  however,  had  not  permitted 
this,  and  I  had  been  forced  out,  being  in  the  worst  of 
humors. 

So  I  said  "Pottum!"  and  laughed. 

"Silence,  boy!"  cried  Sir  Anthony  fiercely.  He  loved 
an  orderly  procession,  and  to  arrange  things  decently. 
"Silence!"  he  repeated,  darting  an  angry  glance  first  at  me 
and  then  at  his  followers,  "or  I  will  warm  that  jacket  of 
yours,  lad!  And  you,  Martin  Luther,  see  to  your  tongue 
for  the  next  twenty-four  hours,  and  keep  it  off  my  Lord 
Bishop!  And,  Father  Carey,  hold  yourself  ready " 

"For  here  Sir  Hot-Pot  cometh!"  cried  the  undaunted 
Martin,  skipping  nimbly  down  from  his  post  of  vantage; 
"and  a  dozen  of  London  saucepans  with  him.  or  may  I 
never  lick  the  inside  of  one  again!" 

A  jest  on  the  sauciness  of  London  serving-men  was  sure 
to  tell  with  the  crowd,  and  there  was  a  great  laugh  at  this, 
especially  among  the  landless  men,  who  were  on  the  skirts 
of  the  party,  and  well  sheltered  from  Sir  Anthony's  eye. 
He  glared  about  him,  provoked  to  find  at  this  critical  mo- 
ment smiles  where  there  should  have  been  looks  of  defer- 
ence, and  a  ring  round  a  fool  where  he  had  marshaled  a 
procession.  Unluckily,  he  chose  to  visit  his  displeasure 
upon  me.  "You  won't  behave,  won't  you,  you  puppy!" 
he  cried.  "You  won't,  won't  you!"  and  stepping  forward 


4  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

he  aimed  a  blow  at  my  shoulders,  which  would  have  made 
me  rub  myself  if  it  had  reached  me.  But  I  was  too  quick. 
I  stepped  back,  the  stick  swung  idly,  and  the  crowd  laughed. 

And  there  the  matter  would  have  ended,  for  the  Bishop's 
party  were  now  close  upon  us,  had  not  my  foot  slipped  on 
the  wet  grass  and  I  fallen  backward.  Seeing  me  thus  at  his 
mercy,  the  temptation  proved  too  much  for  the  knight.  He 
forgot  his  love  of  seemliness  and  even  that  his  visitors  were 
at  his  elbow — and,  stooping  a  moment  to  plant  home  a 
couple  of  shrewd  cuts,  cried,  "Take  that!  Take  that,  my 
lad!"  in  a  voice  that  rang  as  crisply  as  his  thwacks. 

I  was  up  in  an  instant;  not  that  the  pain  was  anything, 
and  before  our  own  people  I  should  have  thought  as  little 
of  shnme,  for  if  the  old  may  not  lay  hand  to  the  young, 
being  related,  where  is  to  be  any  obedience?  Now,  how- 
ever, my  first  glance  met  the  grinning  faces'of  strange  lack- 
eys, and  while  my  shoulders  still  smarted,  the  laughter  of  a 
couple  of  soberly-clad  pages  stung  a  hundred  times  more 
sharply.  I  glared  furiously  round,  and  my  eyes  fell  on  one 
face — a  face  long  remembered.  It  was  that  of  a  man  who 
neither  smiled  nor  laughed ;  a  man  whom  I  recognized  im- 
mediately, not  by  his  sleek  hackney  or  his  purple  cassock, 
which  a  riding-coat  partially  concealed,  or  even  by  his  jew- 
eled hand,  but  by  the  keen  glance  of  power  which  passed 
over  me,  took  me  in,  and  did  not  acknowledge  me;  which 
saw  my  humiliation  without  interest  or  amusement.  The 
look  hurt  me  beyond  smarting  of  shoulders,  for  it  conveyed 
to  me  in  the  twentieth  part  of  a  second  how  very  small  a 
person  Francis  Cludde  was,  and  how  very  great  a  personage 
was  Stephen  Gardiner,  whom  in  my  thoughts  I  had  pre- 
sumed to  belittle. 

I  stood  irresolute  a  moment,  shifting  my  feet  and  glower- 
ing at  him,  my  face  on  fire.  But  when  he  raised  his  hand 
to  give  the  Benediction,  and  the  more  devout,  or  those  with 
mended  hose,  fell  on  their  knees  in  the  mud,  I  turned  my 
back  abruptly,  and,  climbing  the  wall,  flung  away  across 
the  chase. 

"What,  Sir  Anthony!"  I  heard  him  say  as  I  stalked  off, 
his  voice  ringing  clear  and  incisive  amid  the  reverential 
silence  which  followed  the  Latin  words;  "have  we  a  heretic 
here,  cousin?  How  is  this?  So  near  home  too!" 

"It  is  my  nephew,  my  Lord  Bishop,"  I  could  hear  Sir 


"HE,  SIRE  ANEt  HE!"  5 

Anthony  answer,  apology  in  his  tone;  "and  a  willful  boy  at 
times.  You  know  of  him ;  he  has  queer  notions  of  his  own, 
put  into  his  head  long  ago." 

I  caught  no  more,  my  angry  strides  carrying  me  out  of 
earshot.  Fuming,  I  hurried  across  the  long  damp  grass, 
avoiding  here  and  there  the  fallen  limb  of  an  elm  or  a  huge 
round  of  holly.  I  wanted  to  get  out  of  the  way,  and  be 
out  of  the  way ;  and  made  such  haste  that  before  the  slowly 
moving  cavalcade  had  traversed  one-half  of  the  interval 
between  the  road  and  the  house  I  had  reached  the  bridge 
which  crossed  the  moat,  and,  pushing  my  way  impatiently 
through  the  maids  and  scullions  who  had  flocked  to  it  to  see 
the  show,  had  passed  into  the  courtyard. 

The  light  was  failing,  and  the  place  looked  dark  and 
gloomy  in  spite  of  the  warm  glow  of  burning  logs  which 
poured  from  the  lower  windows,  and  some  show  of  green 
boughs  which  had  been  placed  over  the  doorways  in  honor 
of  the  occasion.  I  glanced  up  at  a  lattice  in  one  of  the 
gables — the  window  of  Petronilla's  little  parlor.  There  was 
no  face  at  it,  and  I  turned  fretfully  into  the  hall — and  yes, 
there  she  was,  perched  up  in  one  of  the  high  window-seats. 
She  was  looking  out  on  the  chase,  as  the  maids  were  doing. 
Yes,  as  the  maids  were  doing.  She  too  was  watching  for 
his  High  Mightiness,  I  muttered,  and  that  angered  me 
afresh.  I  crossed  the  rushes  in  silence,  and  climbed  up 
beside  her. 

"Well,"  I  said  ungraciously,  as  she  started,  hearing  me 
at  her  shoulder,  "well,  have  you  seen  enough  of  him  yet, 
cousin?  You  will,  I  warrant  you,  before  he  leaves.  A 
little  of  him  goes  far." 

"A  little  of  whom,  Francis?"  she  asked  simply. 
Though  her  voice  betrayed  some  wonder  at  my  rough 
tone,  she  was  so  much  engaged  with  the  show  that  she  did 
not  look  at  me  immediately.  This  of  course  kept  my  anger 
warm,  and  I  began  to  feel  that  she  was  in  the  conspiracy 
against  me. 

"Of  my  Lord  of  Winchester,  of  course,"  I  answered, 
laughing  rudely;  "of  Sir  Hot-Pot!" 

"Why  do  you  call  him  that?"  she  remonstrated  in  gentle 
wonder.  And  then  she  did  turn  her  soft  dark  eyes  upon 
me.  She  was  a  slender,  willowy  girl  in  those  days,  with  a 
complexion  clear  yet  pale — a  maiden  all  bending  and  grace- 


6  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

fulness,  yet  with  a  great  store  of  secret  firmness,  as  I  was  to 
learn.  "He  seems  as  handsome  an  old  man,"  she  contin- 
ued, "as  I  have  ever  met,  and  stately  and  benevolent,  too, 
as  I  see  him  at  this  distance.  What  is  the  matter  with  you, 
Francis?  What  has  put  you  out?" 

"Put  me  out!"  I  retorted  angrily.  "Who  said  anything 
had  put  me  out?" 

But  I  reddened  under  her  eyes;  I  was  longing  to  tell  her 
all,  and  be  comforted,  while  at  the  same  time  I  shrank  with 
a  man's  shame  from  saying  to  her  that  I  had  been  beaten. 

"I  can  see  that  something  is  the  matter,"  she  said  sagely, 
with  her  head  on  one  side,  and  that  air  of  being  the  elder 
which  she  often  assumed  with  me,  though  she  was  really  the 
younger  by  two  years.  "Why  did  you  not  wait  for  the 
others?  Why  have  you  come  home  alone?  Francis,"  [with 
sudden  conviction]  "you  have  vexed  my  father!  That 
is  it'" 

"He  has  beaten  me  like  a  dog!"  I  blurted  out  passion- 
ately; "and  before  them  all!  Before  those  strangers  he 
flogged  me1" 

She  had  her  back  to  the  window,  and  some  faint  gleam  of 
wintry  sunshine,  passing  through  the  gules  of  the  shield 
blazoned  behind  her,  cast  a  red  stain  on  her  dark  hair  and 
shapely  head.  She  was  silent,  probably  through  pity  or 
consternation;  but  I  could  not  see  her  face,  and  misread 
her.  I  thought  her  hard,  and,  resenting  this,  bragged  on 
with  a  lad's  empty  violence. 

"He  did;  but  I  will  not  stand  it!  I  give  you  warning, 
I  won't  stand  it,  Petronilla'"  and  I  stamped,  young  bully 
that  I  was,  until  the  dust  sprang  out  of  the  boards,  and  the 
hounds  by  the  distant  hearth  jumped  up  and  whined.  "No! 
not  for  all  the  base  bishops  in  Engand!"  I  continued,  tak- 
ing a  step  this  way  and  that.  "He  had  better  not  do  it 
again !  If  he  does,  I  tell  you  it  will  be  the  worse  for  some 
one!" 

"Francis,"  she  exclaimed  abruptly,  "you  must  not  speak 
in  that  way!" 

But  I  was  too  angry  to  be  silenced,  though  instinctively 
I  changed  my  ground. 

"Stephen  Gardiner!"  I  cried  furiously.  "Who  is  Ste- 
phen Gardiner,  I  should  like  to  know?  He  has  no  right  to 
call  himself  Gardiner  at  all'  Dr.  Stephens  he  used  to  call 


"HE,  SIRE  ANE,  HE!n  ^ 

himself,  I  have  heard.  A  child  with  no  name  but  his  god- 
father's; that  is  what  he  is,  for  all  his  airs  and  his  bish- 
opric! Who  is  he  to  look  on  and  see  a  Cludde  beaten? 

If  my  uncle  does  not  take  care " 

.  "Francis!"  she  cried  again,  cutting  me  short  ruthlessly. 
"Be  silent,  sir!"-  [and  this  time  I  was  silent],  "You  un- 
manly boy,"  she  continued,  her  face  glowing  with  indigna- 
tion, "to  threaten  my  father  before  my  face!  How  dare 
you,  sir?  How  dare  you?  And  who  are  you,  you  poor 
child,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  startling  change  from  invec- 
tive to  sarcasm — "who  are  you  to  talk  of  bishops,  I  should 
like  to  know?" 

"One,"  I  said  sullenly,  "who  thinks  less  of  cardinals  and 
bishops  than  some  folk,  Mistress  Petronilla!" 

"Ay,  I  know,"  she  retorted  scathingly — "I  know  that 
you  are  a  kind  of  half-hearted  Protestant — neither  fish, 
flesh,  nor  fowl!" 

"I  am  what  my  father  made  me!"  I  muttered. 

"At  any  rate,"  she  replied,  "you  do  not  see  how  small 
you  are,  or  you  would  not  talk  of  bishops.  Heaven  help 
us!  That  a  boy  who  has  done  nothing  and  seen  nothing, 
should  talk  of  the  Queen's  Chancellor!  Go!  Go  on,  you 
foolish  boy,  and  rule  a  country,  or  cut  off  heads,  and  then 
you  may  talk  of  such  men — men  who  could  unmake  you  and 
yours  with  a  stroke  of  the  pen !  You,  to  talk  so  of  Stephen 
Gardiner!  Fie,  fie,  I  say!  For  shame!" 

I  looked  at  her,  dazed  and  bewildered,  and  had  long 
afterward  in  my  mind  a  picture  of  her  as  she  stood  above 
me,  in  the  window  bay,  her  back  to  the  light,  her  slender 
figure  drawn  to  its  full  height,  her  hand  extended  toward  me. 
I  could  scarcely  understand  or  believe  that  this  was  my 
gentle  cousin.  I  turned  without  a  word  and  stole  away,  not 
looking  behind  me.  I  was  cowed. 

It  happened  that  the  servants  came  hurrying  in  at  the 
moment  with  a  clatter  of  dishes  and  knives,  and  the  noise 
covered  my  retreat.  I  had  a  fancy  afterward  that,  as  I 
moved  away,  Petronilla  called  to  me.  But  at  the  time, 
what  with  the  confusion  and  my  own  disorder,  I  paid  no 
heed  to  her,  but  got  myself  blindly  out  of  the  hall,  and 
away  to  my  own  attic. 

It  was  a  sharp  lesson.  But  my  feelings  when,  being 
alone,  I  had  time  to  feel,  need  not  be  set  down.  After 


8  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

events  made  them  of  no  moment,  for  I  was  even  then  on 
the  verge  of  a  change  so  great  that  all  the  threats  and  mis- 
givings, the  fevers  and  agues,  of  that  afternoon,  real  as  they 
seemed  at  the  time,  became  in  a  few  hours  as  immaterial  as 
the  dew  which  fell  before  yesterday's  thunderstorm. 

The  way  the  change  began  to  come  about  was  this.  I 
crept  in  late  to  supper,  facing  the  din  and  lights,  the  ro\vs 
of  guests  and  the  hurrying  servants,  with  a  mixture  of  shame 
and  sullenness.  I  was  sitting  down  with  a  scowl  next  the 
Bishop's  pages — my  place  was  beside  them,  half-way  down 
the  table,  and  I  was  not  too  careful  to  keep  my  feet  clear  of 
their  clothing — when  my  uncle's  voice,  raised  in  a  harsher 
tone  than  was  usual  with  him,  even  when  he  was  dis- 
pleased, summoned  me. 

"Come  here,  sirrah!"  he  cried  roundly.  "Come  here, 
Master  Francis !  I  have  a  word  to  speak  to  you ! ' ' 

I  went  slowly,  dragging  my  feet,  while  all  looked  up,  and 
there  was  a  partial  silence.  I  was  conscious  of  this,  and  it 
nerved  me.  For  a  moment  indeed,  as  I  stepped  on  to  the 
dais  I  had  a  vision  of  scores  of  candles  and  rushlights  float- 
ing in  mist,  and  of  innumerable  bodiless  faces  all  turned  up 
to  me.  But  the  vision  and  the  mistiness  passed  away,  and 
left  only  my  uncle's  long,  thin  face  inflamed  with  anger,  and 
beside  it,  in  the  same  ring  of  light,  the  watchful  eyes  and 
stern,  impassive  features  of  Stephen  Gardiner.  The  Bish- 
op's face  and  his  eyes  were  all  I  saw  then ;  the  same  face, 
the  same  eyes,  I  remembered,  which  had  looked  unyielding 
into  those  of  the  relentless  Cromwell  and  had  scarce 
dropped  before  the  frown  of  a  Tudor.  His  purple  cap  and 
cassock,  the  lace  and  rich  fur,  the  chain  of  office,  I  re- 
membered afterward. 

"Now,  boy,"  thundered  Sir  Anthony,  pointing  out  the 
place  where  I  should  stand,  "what  have  you  to  say  for 
yourself?  why  have  you  so  misbehaved  this  afternoon? 
Let  your  tongue  speak  quickly,  do  you  hear,  or  you  will 
smart  for  it.  And  let  it  be  to  the  purpose,  boy!" 

I  was  about  to  answer  something — whether  it  was  likely 
to  make  things  worse  or  better,  I  cannot  remember — when 
Gardiner  stayed  me.  He  laid  his  hand  gently  on  Sir 
Anthony's  sleeve,  and  interposed.  "One  moment,"  he 
said  mildly,  "your  nephew  did  not  stay  for  the  Church's 
blessing,  I  remember.  Perhaps  he  has  scruples.  There 


"HE,  SIRE  ANE,  HE!n  9 

are  people  nowadays  who  have.  Let  us  hear  if  it  be 
so." 

This  time  it  was  Sir  Anthony  who  did  not  let  me  answer. 

"No,  no,"  he  cried  hastily;  "no,  no;  it  is  not  so.  He 
conforms,  my  lord,  he  conforms.  You  conform,  sir,"  he 
continued,  turning  fiercely  upon  me,  "do  you  not?  An- 
swer, sir." 

"Ah!"  the  Bishop  put  in  with  a  sneer,  "you  conform, 
do  you?" 

"I  attend  mass — to  please  my  uncle,"  I  replied  boldly. 

"He  was  ill  brought  up  as  a  child,"  Sir  Anthony  said 
hastily,  speaking  in  a  tone  which  those  below  could  not 
hear.  "But  you  know  all  that,  my  lord — you  know  all 
that.  It  is  an  old  story  to  you.  So  I  make,  and  I  pray  you 
to  make  for  the  sake  of  the  house,  some  allowance.  He 
conforms;  he  undoubtedly  conforms." 

"Enough!"  Gardiner  assented.  "The  rest  is  for  the 
good  priest  here,  whose  ministrations  will  no  doubt  in  time 
avail.  But  a  word  with  this  young  gentleman,  Sir  An- 
thony, on  another  subject.  If  it  was  not  to  the  holy  office 
he  objected,  perhaps  it  was  to  the  Queen's  Chancellor,  or 
to  the  Queen?"  He  raised  his  voice  with  the  last  words 
and  bent  his  brows,  so  that  I  could  scarcely  believe  it  was 
the  same  man  speaking.  "Eh,  sir,  was  that  so?"  he  con- 
tinued severely,  putting  aside  Sir  Anthony's  remonstrance 
and  glowering  at  me.  "It  may  be  that  we  have  a  rebel 
here  instead  of  a  heretic." 

"God  forbid!"  cried  the  knight,  unable  to  contain  him- 
self. It  was  clear  that  he  repented  already  of  his  ill-timed 
discipline.  "I  will  answer  for  it  that  we  have  no  Wyatts 
here,  my  lord." 

"That  is  well!"  the  Chancellor  replied.  "That  is  well!" 
he  repeated,  his  eyes  leaving  me  and  roving  the  hall  with  so 
proud  a  menace  in  their  glance  that  all  quailed,  even  the 
fool.  "That  is  very  well,"  he  said,  drumming  on  the  table 
with  his  fingers;  "but  let  Master  Francis  speak  for  him- 
self." 

"I  never  heard,"  said  I  boldly — I  had  had  a  moment  for 
thought — "that  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  had  any  following  in  this 
country.  None  to  my  knowledge.  As  for  the  Queen's 
marriage  with  the  Prince  of  Spain,  which  was  the  ground, 
as  we  gathered  here,  of  Wyatt's  rising  with  the  Kentish 


10  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

folk,  it  seems  a  matter  rather  for  the  Queen's  grace  than 
her  subjects.  But  if  that  be  not  so,  I,  for  my  part,  would 
rather  have  seen  her  married  to  a  stout  Englishman — ay,  or 
to  a  Frenchman." 

"And  why,  young  gentleman?" 

"Because  I  would  we  kept  at  peace  with  France.  We 
have  more  to  gain  by  fighting  Spain  than  fighting  France," 
I  answered  bluntly. 

My  uncle  held  up  his  hands.  "The  boy  is  clean  mad!" 
he  groaned.  "Who  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing?  With  all 
France,  the  rightful  estate  of  her  Majesty,  waiting  to  be 
won  back,  he  talks  of  fighting  Spain !  And  his  own  grand- 
mother was  a  Spaniard!" 

"I  am  none  the  less  an  Englishman  for  that!"  I  said; 
whereon  there  was  a  slight  murmur  of  applause  in  the  hall 
below.  "And  for  France,"  I  continued,  carried  away  by 
this,  "we  have  been  fighting  it,  off  and  on,  as  long  as  men 
remember;  and  what  are  we  the  better?  We  have  only 
lost  what  we  had  to  begin.  Besides,  I  am  told  that  France 
is  five  times  stronger  than  it  was  in  Henry  the  Fifth's  time, 
and  we  should  only  spend  our  strength  in  winning  what  we 
could  not  hold.  While  as  to  Spain " 

"Ay,  as  to  Spain?'*  grumbled  Sir  Anthony,  forgetting  his 
formidable  neighbor,  and  staring  at  me  with  eyes  of  wonder. 
"Why,  my  father  fought  the  French  at  Guinegate,  and  my 
grandfather  at  Cherbourg,  and  his  father  at  Agincourt! 
But  there!  As  to  Spain,  you  popinjay?" 

"Why,  she  is  conquering  here,"  I  answered  warmly, 
"and  colonizing  there  among  the  newly-discovered  coun- 
tries of  the  world,  and  getting  all  the  trade  and  all  the  sea- 
ports and  all  the  gold  and  silver;  and  Spain  after  all  is 
a  nation  with  no  greater  strength  of  men  than  England. 
Ay,  and  I  hear,"  I  cried,  growing  more  excited  and  raising 
my  voice,  "that  now  is  our  time  or  never!  The  Spaniards 
and  the  Portuguese  have  discovered  a  new  world  over  seas. 

"  A  Castilla  y  a  Leon 
Nuevo  mundo  dio  Colon  1 

say  they;  but  depend  upon  it,  every  country  that  is  to  be 
rich  and  strong  in  the  time  that  is  coming  must  have  part  in 
it.  We  cannot  conquer  either  Spain  or  France;  we  have 
not  men  enough.  But  we  have  docks  and  sailors,  and 


"HE,  SIRE  ANE,  HE!"  n 

ships  in  London  and  Fowey,  and  Bristol  and  the  Cinque 
Ports,  enough  to  fight  Spain  over  the  great  seas,  and  I  say, 
'Have  at  her!" ' 

"What  next?"  groaned  Sir  Anthony  piteously.  "Did 
man  ever  hear  such  crackbrained  nonsense?" 

But  I  think  it  was  not  nonsense,  for  his  words  were 
almost  lost  in  the  cry  which  ran  through  the  hall  as  I 
ceased  speaking — a  cry  of  English  voices.  One  moment 
my  heart  beat  high  and  proudly  with  a  new  sense  of  power; 
the  next,  as  a  shadow  of  a  cloud  falls  on  a  sunny  hillside,  the 
cold  sneer  on  the  statesman's  face  fell  on  me  and  chilled  me. 
His  set  look  had  neither  thawed  nor  altered,  his  color  had 
neither  come  nor  gone.  "You  speak  your  lesson  well, 
lad,"  he  said.  "Who  taught  you  statecraft?" 

I  grew  smaller,  shrinking  with  each  word  he  uttered; 
and  faltered,  and  was  dumb. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "you  see  but  a  little  way;  yet  country 
lads  do  not  talk  of  Fowey  and  Bristol !  Who  primed  you?" 

"I  met  a  Master  Sebastian  Cabot,"  I  said  reluctantly  at 
last,  when  he  had  pressed  me  more  than  once,  "who  stayed 
a  while  at  a  house  not  far  from  here,  and  had  been  Inspector 
of  the  Navy  to  King  Edward.  He  had  been  a  seaman 
seventy  years,  and  he  talked " 

"Too  fast!"  said  Gardiner,  with  a  curt  nod.  "But 
enough,  I  understand.  I  know  the  man.  He  is  dead." 

He  was  silent  then,  and  seemed  to  have  fallen  suddenly 
into  thought,  as  a  man  well  might  who  had  the  governing  of 
a  kingdom  on  his  shoulders. 

Seemingly  he  had  done  with  me.  I  looked  at  Sir  An- 
thony. "Ay,  go!"  he  said  irritably,  waving  me  off.  "Go!" 

And  I  went.  The  ordeal  was  over,  and  over  so  success- 
fully that  I  felt  the  humiliation  of  the  afternoon  cheap  at 
the  price  of  this  triumph ;  for,  as  I  stepped  down,  there  was 
a  buzz  around  me,  a  murmur  of  congratulation  and  pride 
and  excitement.  On  every  Coton  face  I  marked  a  flush,  in 
every  Coton  eye  I  read  a  sparkle,  and  every  flush  and  every 
sparkle  was  for  me.  Even  the  Chancellor's  secretaries, 
grave,  down-looking  men,  all  secrecy  and  caution,  cast 
curious  glances  at  me,  as  though  I  were  something  out  of 
the  common;  and  the  Chancellor's  pages  made  way  for  me 
with  new-born  deference.  "There  is  for  country  wits!" 
I  heard  Baldwin  Moor  cry  gleefully,  while  the  man  who  put 


12  777^  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

food  before  me  murmured  of  "the  Cludde  bull-pup!"  If  I 
read  in  Father  Carey's  face,  as  indeed  I  did,  solicitude  as 
well  as  relief  and  gladness,  I  marked  the  latter  only,  and 
hugged  a  natural  pride  to  my  breast.  When  Martin  Luther 
said  boldly  that  it  was  not  only  Bishop  could  fill  a  bowl,  it 
was  by  an  effort  I  refrained  from  joining  in  the  laugh  which 
followed. 

For  an  hour  I  enjoyed  this  triumph,  and  did  all  but  brag 
of  it.  Especially  I  wished  Petronilla  had  witnessed  it.  At 
the  end  of  that  time — Finis,  as  the  book  says.  I  was  cross- 
ing the  courtyard,  one-half  of  which  was  bathed  in  a  cold 
splendor  of  moonlight,  and  was  feeling  the  first  sobering 
touch  of  the  night  air  on  my  brow,  when  I  heard  some  one 
call  out  my  name.  I  turned,  to  find  one  of  the  Chancellor's 
servants,  a  sleek,  substantial  fellow,  with  a  smug  mouth,  at 
my  elbow. 

"What  is  it?"  I  said. 

"I  am  bidden  to  fetch  you  at  once,  Master  Cludde,"  he 
answered,  a  gleam  of  sly  malice  peeping  through  the  grav- 
ity of  his  demeanor.  "The  Chancellor  would  see  you  in 
his  room,  young  sir." 


CHAPTER  II. 

IN    THE    BISHOP'S    ROOM. 

Chancellor  was  lodged  in  the  great  chamber  on  the 
southern  side  of  the  courtyard,  a  room  which  we  called 
the  Tapestried  Chamber,  and  in  which  tradition  said  that 
King  Henry  the  Sixth  had  once  slept.  It  was  on  the 
upper  floor,  and  for  this  reason  free  from  the  damp  air 
which  in  autumn  and  winter  rose  from  the  moat  and  hung 
about  the  lower  range  of  rooms.  It  was  besides,  of  easy 
access  from  the  hall,  a  door  in  the  gallery  of  the  latter  lead- 
ing into  an  anteroom,  which  again  opened  into  the  Tapes- 
tried Chamber;  while  a  winding  staircase,  starting  from  a 
dark  nook  in  the  main  passage  of  the  house,  also  led  to  this 
state  apartment,  but  by  another  and  more  private  door. 

I  reached  the  antechamber  with  a  stout  heart  in  my 
breast,  though  a  little  sobered  by  my  summons,  and  feeling 
such  a  reaction  from  the  heat  of  a  few  minutes  before  as 
follows  a  plunge  into  cold  water.  In  the  anteroom  I  was 
bidden  to  wait  while  the  great  man's  will  was  taken,  which 
seemed  strange  to  me,  then  unused  to  the  mummery  of 
Court  folk.  But  before  I  had  time  to  feel  much  surprise, 
the  inner  door  was  opened,  and  I  was  told  to  enter. 

The  great  room,  which  I  had  seldom  seen  in  use,  had 
now  an  appearance  quite  new  to  me.  A  dull  red  fire  was 
glowing  comfortably  on  the  hearthstone,  before  which  a 
posset  stool  was  standing.  Near  this,  seated  at  a  table 
strewn  with  a  profusion  of  papers  and  documents,  was  a 
secretary  writing  busily.  The  great  oaken  bedstead,  with 
its  nodding  tester,  lay  in  a  background  of  shadows,  which 
played  about  the  figures  broidered  on  the  hangings,  or  were 
lost  in  the  darkness  of  the  corners ;  while  near  the  fire,  in 
the  light  cast  by  the  sconces  fixed  above  the  hearth,  lay 
part  of  the  Chancellor's  equipment.  The  fur  rugs  and 
cloak  of  sable,  the  saddle-bags,  the  dispatch-boxes,  and  the 


14  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

silver  chafing-dish,  gave  an  air  of  comfort  to  this  part  of  the 
room.  Walking  up  and  down  in  the  midst  of  these,  dicta- 
ting a  sentence  at  every  other  turn,  was  Stephen  Gardiner. 

As  I  entered  the  clerk  looked  up,  holding  his  pen  sus- 
pended. His  master,  by  a  quick  nod,  ordered  him  to  pro- 
ceed. Then,  signaling  to  me  in  a  like  silent  fashion  his 
command  that  I  should  stand  by  the  hearth,  the  Bishop 
resumed  his  task  of  composition. 

For  some  minutes  my  interest  in  the  man,  whom  I  had 
now  an  opportunity  of  scrutinizing  unmarked  and  at  my 
leisure,  took  up  all  my  attention.  He  was  at  this  time  close 
on  seventy,  but  looked,  being  still  tall  and  stout,  full  ten 
years  younger.  His  face,  square  and  sallow,  was  indeed 
wrinkled  and  lined;  his  eyes  lay  deep  in  his  head,  his  shoul- 
ders were  beginning  to  bend,  the  nape  of  his  neck  to  be- 
come prominent.  He  had  lost  an  inch  of  his  full  height. 
But  his  eyes  still  shone  brightly,  nor  did  any  trace  of  weak- 
ness mar  the  stern  character  of  his  mouth,  or  the  crafty 
wisdom  of  his  brow.  The  face  was  the  face  of  a  man  aus- 
tere, determined,  perhaps  cruel;  of  a  man  who  could  both 
think  and  act. 

My  curiosity  somewhat  satisfied,  I  had  leisure,  first  to 
wonder  why  I  had  been  sent  for,  and  then  to  admire  the 
prodigious  number  of  books  and  papers  which  lay  about, 
more,  indeed,  than  I  had  ever  seen  together  in  my  life. 
From  this  I  passed  to  listening,  idly  at  first,  and  with  inter- 
est afterward,  to  the  letter  which  the  Chancellor  was  dictat- 
ing. It  seemed  from  its  tenor  to  be  a  letter  to  some  per- 
son in  authority,  and  presently  one  passage  attracted  my 
attention,  so  that  I  could  afterward  recall  it  word  for  word. 

"I  do  not  think" — the  Chancellor  pronounced,  speaking 
in  a  sonorous  voice,  and  the  measured  tone  of  one  whose 
thoughts  lie  perfectly  arranged  in  his  head — "that  the 
Duchess  Katherine  will  venture  to  take  the  step  suggested 
as  possible.  Yet  Clarence's  report  may  be  of  moment. 
Let  the  house,  therefore,  be  watched  if  anything  savoring  of 
flight  be  marked,  and  take  notice  whether  there  be  a  vessel 
in  the  Pool  adapted  to  her  purpose.  A  vessel  trading  to 
Dunquerque  would  be  most  likely.  Leave  her  husband  till 
I  return,  when  I  will  deal  with  him  roundly." 

I  missed  what  followed.  It  was  upon  another  subject, 
and  my  thoughts  lagged  behind,  being  wholly  taken  up  with 


IN   THE  BISHOPS  ROOM.  IS 

the  Duchess  Katherine  and  her  fortunes.  I  wondered  who 
she  was,  young  or  old,  and  what  this  step  could  be  she  was 
said  to  meditate,  and  what  the  jargon  about  the  Pool  and 
Dunquerque  meant.  I  was  still  thinking  of  this  when  I  was 
aroused  by  an  abrupt  silence,  and  looking  up  found  that  the 
Chancellor  was  bending  over  the  papers  on  the  table.  The 
secretary  was  leaving  the  room. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  him,  Gardiner  rose  from  his 
stooping  posture  and  came  slowly  toward  me,  a  roll  of  pa- 
pers in  his  hand.  "Now,"  he  said  tranquilly,  seating  himself 
in  an  elbow-chair  which  stood  in  front  of  the  hearth,  "I 
will  dispose  of  your  business,  Master  Cludde." 

He  paused,  looking  at  me  in  a  shrewd,  masterful  way, 
much  as  if — I  thought  at  the  time,  little  knowing  how  near 
the  truth  my  fancy  went — I  were  a  beast  he  was  about  to 
buy;  and  then  he  went  on.  "I  have  sent  for  you,  Master 
Francis,"  he  said  dryly,  fixing  his  piercing  eyes  on  mine, 
"because  I  think  that  this  country  does  not  suit  your  health. 
You  conform,  but  you  conform  with  a  bad  grace,  and  Eng- 
land is  no  longer  the  place  for  such.  You  incite  the  com- 
monalty against  the  Queen's  allies,  and  England  is  not  the 
place  for  such.  Do  not  contradict  me;  I  have  heard  you 
myself.  Then,"  he  continued,  grimly  thrusting  out  his  jaw 
in  a  sour  smile,  "you  misname  those  whom  the  Queen  hon- 
ors; and  were  Dr.  Stephens — you  take  me,  Master  Mala- 
pert? such  a  man  as  his  predecessors,  you  would  rue  the 
word.  For  a  trifle  scarce  weightier  Wolsey  threw  a  man  to 
rot  six  years  in  a  dungeon,  boy!" 

I  changed  color,  yet  not  so  much  in  fear — though  it  were 
vain  to  say  I  did  not  tremble — as  in  confusion.  I  had  called 
him  Dr.  Stephens  indeed,  but  it  had  been  to  Petronilla 
only.  I  stood,  not  knowing  what  to  say,  until  he,  after 
lingering  on  his  last  words  to  enjoy  my  misery,  resumed  his 
subject.  "That  is  one  good  and  sufficient  reason — mind 
you,  sufficient,  boy — why  England  is  no  place  for  you. 
For  another,  the  Cluddes  have  always  been  soldiers ;  and 
you — though  readier-witted  than  some,  which  comes  of 
your  Spanish  grandmother — are  quicker  with  a  word  than  a 
thought,  and  a  blow  than  either.  Of  which  afterward.  Well, 
England  is  going  to  be  no  place  for  soldiers.  Please  God, 
we  have  finished  with  wars  at  home.  A  woman's  reign 
should  be  a  reign  of  peace." 


1 6  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

I  hardened  my  heart  at  that.  A  reign  of  peace,  forsooth, 
when  the  week  before  we  had  heard  of  a  bishop  burned  at 
Gloucester!  I  hardened  my  heart.  I  would  not  be  fright- 
ened, though  I  knew  his  power,  and  knew  how  men  in  those 
days  misused  power.  I  would  put  a  bold  face  on  the 
matter. 

He  had  not  done  with  me  yet,  however.  "One  more 
reason  I  have,"  he  continued,  stopping  me  as  I  was  about 
to  speak,  "for  saying  that  England  will  not  suit  your  health, 
Master  Cludde.  It  is  that  I  do  not  want  you  here. 
Abroad,  you  may  be  of  use  to  me,  and  at  the  same  time 
carve  out  your  own  fortune.  You  have  courage  and  can 
use  a  sword,  I  hear.  You  understand — and  it  is  a  rare  gift 
with  Englishmen — some  Spanish,  which  I  suppose  your 
father  or  your  uncle  taught  you.  You  can — so  Father 
Carey  says — construe  a  Latin  sentence  if  it  be  not  too  diffi- 
cult. You  are  scarcely  twenty,  and  you  will  have  me  for 
your  patron.  Why,  were  I  you,  boy,  with  your  age  and 
your  chances,  I  would  die  Prince  or  Pope!  Ay,  I  would!" 
He  stopped  speaking,  his  eyes  on  fire.  Nay,  a  ring  of  such 
real  feeling  flashed  out  in  his  last  words  that,  though  I  dis- 
trusted him,  though  old  prejudices  warned  me  against  him, 
and,  at  heart  a  Protestant,  I  shuddered  at  things  I  had 
heard  of  him,  the  longing  to  see  the  world  and  have  adven- 
tures seized  upon  me.  Yet  I  did  not  speak  at  once.  He 
had  told  me  that  my  tongue  outran  my  thoughts,  and  I 
stood  silent  until  he  asked  me  curtly,  "Well,  sirrah,  what  do 
you  say?" 

"I  say,  my  Lord  Bishop,"  I  replied  respectfully,  "that 
the  prospect  you  hold  out  to  me  would  tempt  me  were  I  a 
younger  son,  or  without  those  ties  of  gratitude  which  hold 
me  to  my  uncle.  But,  my  father  excepted,  I  am  Sir  An- 
thony's only  heir." 

"Ah,  your  father!"  he  said  contemptuously.  "You  do 
well  to  remind  me  of  him,  for  I  see  you  are  forgetting  the 
first  part  of  my  speech  in  thinking  of  the  last!  Should  I 
have  promised  first  and  threatened  later?  You  would  fain, 
I  expect,  stay  here  and  woo  Mistress  Petronilla?  Do  I 
touch  you  there?  You  think  to  marry  the  maid  and  be 
master  of  Coton  End  in  God's  good  time,  do  you?  Then 
listen,  Francis  Cludde.  Neither  one  nor  the  other,  neither 
maid  nor  meadow  will  be  yours  should  you  stay  here  till 
Doom  sd  .TV!'' 


IN    THE  BISHOP'S  ROOM.  17 

I  started,  and  stood  glowering  on  him,  speechless  with 
anger  and  astonishment. 

"You  do  not  know  who  you  are,"  he  continued,  leaning 
forward  with  a  sudden  movement,  and  speaking  with  one 
claw-like  finger  extended,  and  a  malevolent  gleam  in  his 
eyes.  "You  called  me  a  nameless  child  a  while  ago,  and  so 
I  was;  yet  have  I  risen  to  be  ruler  of  England,  Master 
Cludde !  But  you — I  will  tell  you  which  of  us  is  base-born. 
I  will  tell  you  who  and  what  your  father,  Ferdinand  Cludde, 
was.  He  was,  nay,  he  is,  my  tool,  spy,  jackal !  Do  you 
understand,  boy?  Your  father  is  one  of  the  band  of  foul 
creatures  to  whom  such  as  I,  base-born  though  I  be,  fling 
the  scraps  from  their  table!  He  is  the  vilest  of  the  vile 
men  who  do  my  dirty  work,  my  lad." 

He  had  raised  his  voice  and  hand  in  passion,  real  or 
assumed.  He  dropped  them  as  I  sprang  forward.  "You 
lie!"  I  cried,  trembling  all  over. 

"Easy!  easy!"  he  said.  He  stopped  me  where  I  was 
by  a  gesture  of  stern  command.  "Think!"  he  continued, 
calmly  and  weightily.  "Has  :my  one  ever  spoken  to  you  of 
your  father  since  the  day  seven  years  ago,  when  you  came 
here,  a  child,  brought  by  a  servant?  Has  Sir  Anthony 
talked  of  him?  Has  any  servant  named  his  name  to  you. 
Think,  boy.  If  Ferdinand  Cludde  be  a  father  to  be  proud 
of,  why  does  his  brother  make  naught  of  him?" 

"He  is  a  Protestant,"  I  said  faintly.  Faintly,  because  I 
had  asked  myself  this  very  question  not  once  but  often. 
Sir  Anthony  so  seldom  mentioned  my  father  that  I  had 
thought  it  strange  myself.  I  had  thought  it  strange,  too, 
that  the  servants,  who  must  well  remember  Ferdinand 
Cludde,  never  talked  to  me  about  him.  Hitherto  I  had 
always  been  satisfied  to  answer,  "He  is  a  Protestant"  ;  but 
face  to  face  with  this  terrible  old  man  and  his  pitiless 
charge,  the  words  came  but  faintly  from  my  lips. 

"A  Protestant,"  he  replied  solemnly.  "Yes,  this  comes 
of  schism,  that  villains  cloak  themselves  in  it,  and  parade 
for  true  men.  A  Protestant  you  call  him,  boy?  He  has 
been  that,  ay,  and  all  things  to  all  men ;  and  he  has  betrayed 
all  things  and  all  men.  He  was  in  the  great  Cardinal's 
confidence,  and  forsook  him,  when  he  fell,  for  Cromwell. 
Thomas  Cromwell,  although  they  were  of  the  same  persua- 
sion, he  betrayed  to  me.  I  have  here,  here  " — and  he 
struck  the  letters  in  his  hand  a  scornful  blow — "  the  offer  he 


1 8  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

made  to  me,  and  his  terms.  Then  eight  years  back,  when 
the  late  King  Edward  came  to  the  throne,  I  too  fell  on  evil 
days,  and  Master  Cludde  abandoned  me  for  my  Lord  Hert- 
ford, but  did  me  no  great  harm.  But  he  did  something 
which  blasted  him — blasted  him  at  last." 

He  paused.  Had  the  fire  died  down,  or  was  it  only  my 
imagination  that  the  shadows  thickened  round  the  bed 
behind  him,  and  closed  in  more  nearly  on  us,  leaving  his 
pale  grim  face  to  confront  me — his  face,  which  seemed  the 
paler  and  grimmer,  the  more  saturnine  and  all-mastering,  for 
the  dark  frame  which  set  it  off? 

"He  did  this,"  he  continued  slowly,  "which  came  to 
light  and  blasted  him.  He  asked,  as  the  price  of  his  ser- 
vice in  betraying  me,  his  brother's  estate." 

"Impossible!"    I  stammered.     "Why,  Sir  Anthony " 

"What  of  Sir  Anthony,  you  would  ask?"  the  Chancellor 
replied,  interrupting  me  with  savage  irony.  "Oh,  he  was  a 
Papist!  an  obstinate  Papist!  He  might  go  hang — or  to 
Warwick  Jail!" 

"Nay,  but  this  at  least,  my  lord,  is  false!"  I  cried. 
"Palpably  false!  If  my  father  had  so  betrayed  his  own 
flesh  and  blood,  should  I  be  here?  Should  I  be  at  Coton 
End?  You  say  this  happened  eight  years  ago.  Seven 
years  ago  I  came  here.  Would  Sir  Anthony " 

"There  are  fools  everywhere,'-'  the  old  man  sneered. 
"When  my  Lord  Hertford  refused  your  father's  suit,  Fer- 
dinand began — it  is  his  nature — to  plot  against  him.  He 
was  found  out,  and  execrated  by  all — for  he  had  been  false 
to  all — he  fled  for  his  life.  He  left  you  behind,  and  a  ser- 
vant brought  you  to  Coton  End,  where  Sir  Anthony  took 
you  in." 

I  covered  my  face.  Alas !  I  believed  him ;  I,  who  had 
always  been  so  proud  of  my  lineage,  so  proud  of  the  brave 
traditions  of  the  house  and  its  honor,  so  proud  of  Coton 
End  and  all  that  belonged  to  it!  Now,  if  this  were  true,  I 
could  never  again  take  pleasure  in  one  or  the  other.  I  was 
the  son  of  a  man  branded  as  a  turncoat  and  an  informer,  of 
one  who  was  the  worst  of  traitors!  I  sank  down  on  the 
settle  behind  me  and  hid  my  face.  Another  might  have 
thought  less  of  the  blow,  or,  with  greater  knowledge  of  the 
world,  might  have  made  light  of  it  as  a  thing  not  touching 
himself.  But  on  me,  young  as  I  was,  and  proud,  and  as 


IN   THE  BISHOP'S  ROOM.  19 

yet  tender,  and  having  done  nothing  myself,  it  fell  with 
crushing  force. 

It  was  years  since  I  had  seen  my  father,  and  I  could  not 
stand  forth  loyally  and  fight  his  battle,  as  a  son  his  father's 
friend  and  familiar  for  years  might  have  fought  it.  On  the 
contrary,  there  was  so  much  which  seemed  mysterious  in 
my  past  life,  so  much  that  bore  out  the  Chancellor's  accu- 
sation, that  I  felt  a  dread  of  its  truth  even  before  I  had 
proof.  Yet  I  would  have  proof.  "Show  me  the  letters!" 
I  said  harshly;  "show  me  the  letters,  my  lord!" 

"You  know  your  father's  handwriting?" 

"I  do." 

I  knew  it,  not  from  any  correspondence  my  father  had 
held  with  me,  but  because  I  had  more  than  once  examined 
with  natural  curiosity  the  wrappers  of  the  dispatches  which 
at  intervals  of  many  months,  sometimes  of  a  year,  came 
from  him  to  Sir  Anthony.  I  had  never  known  anything  of 
the  contents  of  the  letters,  all  that  fell  to  my  share  being 
certain  formal  messages,  which  Sir  Anthony  would  give  me, 
generally  with  a  clouded  brow  and  a  testy  manner  that  grew 
genial  again  only  with  the  lapse  of  time. 

Gardiner  handed  me  the  letters,  and  I  took  them  and 
read  one.  One  was  enough.  That  my  father!  Alas! 
alas !  No  wonder  that  I  turned  my  face  to  the  wall,  shiv- 
ering as  with  the  ague,  and  that  all  about  me — except  the 
red  glow  of  the  fire,  which  burned  into  my  brain — seemed 
darkness!  I  had  lost  the  thing  I  valued  most.  I  had  lost 
at  a  blow  everything  of  which  I  was  proud.  The  treachery 
that  could  flush  that  worn  face  opposite  to  me,  lined  as  it 
was  with  statecraft,  and  betray  the  wily  tongue  into  passion, 
seemed  to  me,  young  and  impulsive,  a  thing  so  vile  as  to 
brand  a  man's  children  through  generations. 

Therefore  I  hid  my  face  in  the  corner  of  the  settle,  while 
the  Chancellor  gazed  at  me  a  while  in  silence,  as  one  who 
had  made  an  experiment  might  watch  the  result. 

"You  see  now,  my  friend,"  he  said  at  last,  almost  gently, 
"that  you  may  be  base-born  in  more  ways  than  one.  But 
be  of  good  cheer;  you  are  young,  and  what  I  have  done 
you  may  do.  Think  of  Thomas  Cromwell — his  father  was 
naught.  Think  of  the  old  Cardinal — my  master.  Think 
of  the  Duke  of  Suffolk — Charles  Brandon,  I  mean.  He  was 
a  plain  gentleman,  yet  he  married  a  queen.  More,  the  door 


20  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS   CLUDDE. 

which  they  had  to  open  for  themselves  I  will  open  for  you— 
only,  when  you  are  inside,  play  the  man,  and  be  faithful." 

"What  would  you  have  me  do?"  I  whispered  hoarsely. 

"I  would  have  you  do  this,"  he  answered.  "There 
are  great  things  brewing  in  the  Netherlands,  boy — great 
changes,  unless  I  am  mistaken.  I  have  need  of  an  agent 
there,  a  man,  stout,  trusty,  and,  in  particular,  unknown, 
who  will  keep  me  informed  of  events.  If  you  will  be  that 
agent,  I  can  procure  for  you — and  not  appear  in  the  matter 
myself — a  post  of  pay  and  honor  in  the  Regent's  Guards. 
What  say  you  to  that,  Master  Cludde?  A  few  weeks  and 
you  will  be  making  history,  and  Colon  End  will  seem  a 
mean  place  to  you.  Now,  what  do  you  say?" 

I  was  longing  to  be  away  and  alone  with  my  misery,  but 
I  forced  myself  to  reply  patiently. 

"With  your  leave  I  will  give  you  my  answer  to-morrow, 
my  lord,"  I  said,  as  steadily  as  I  could;  and  I  rose,  still 
keeping  my  face  turned  from  him. 

"Very  well,"  he  replied,  with  apparent  confidence.  But 
he  watched  me  keenly,  as  I  fancied.  "I  know  already  what 
your  answer  will  be.  Yet  before  you  go  I  will  give  you  a 
piece  of  advice  which  in  the  new  life  you  begin  to-night  will 
avail  you  more  than  silver,  more  than  gold — ay,  more  than 
steel.  Master  Francis.  It  is  this:  Be  prompt  to  think,  be 
prompt  to  strike,  be  slow  to  speak!  Mark  it  well!  It  is  a 
simple  recipe,  yet  it  has  made  me  what  I  am,  and  may  make 
you  greater.  Now  go!" 

He  pointed  to  the  little  door  opening  on  the  staircase, 
and  I  bowed  and  went  out,  closing  it:carefully  behind  me. 
On  the  stairs,  moving  blindly  in  the  dark,  I  fell  over  some 
one  who  lay  sleeping  there,  and  who  clutched  at  my  leg.  I 
shook  him  off,  however,  with  an  exclamation  of  rage,  and, 
stumbling  down  the  rest  of  the  steps,  gained  the  open  air. 
Excited  and  feverish,  I  shrank  with  aversion  from  the  con- 
finement of  my  room,  and,  hurrying  over  the  drawbridge, 
sought  at  random  the  long  terrace  by  the  fish-pools,  on 
which  the  moonlight  fell,  a  sheet  of  silver,  broken  only  by 
the  sundial  and  the  shadows  of  the  rose  bushes.  The  night 
air,  weeping  chill  from  the  forest,  fanned  my  cheeks  as  I 
paced  up  and  down.  One  way  I  had  before  rne  the  manor- 
house — the  steep  gable-ends,  the  gateway  tower,  the  low 
outbuildings  and  cornstacks  and  stables — and  flanking  these 


IN  THE  BISHOPS  ROOM.  21 

the  squat  tower  and  nave  of  the  church.  I  turned.  Now 
I  saw  only  the  water  and  the  dark  line  of  trees  which  fringed 
the  further  bank.  But  above  these  the  stars  were  shin- 
ing. 

Yet  in  my  mind  there  was  no  starlight.  There  all  was  a 
blur  of  wild  passions  and  resolves.  Shame  and  an  angry 
resentment  against  those  who  had  kept  me  so  long  in  igno- 
rance— even  against  Sir  Anthony — were  my  uppermost 
feelings.  I  smarted  under  the  thought  that  I  had  been 
living  on  his  charity.  I  remembered  many  a  time  when  I 
had  taken  much  on  myself,  and  he  had  smiled,  and  the 
remembrance  stung  me.  I  longed  to  assert  myself  and  do 
something  to  wipe  off  the  stain. 

But  should  I  accept  the  Bishop's  offer?  It  never  crossed 
my  mind  to  do  so.  He  had  humiliated  me,  and  I  hated 
him  for  it.  Longing  to  cut  myself  off  from  my  old  life,  I 
could  not  support  a  patron  who  would  know,  and  might  cast 
in  my  teeth  the  old  shame.  A  third  reason,  too,  worked 
powerfully  with  me  as  I  became  cooler.  This  was  the  con- 
viction that,  apart  from  the  glitter  which  the  old  man's  craft 
had  cast  about  it,  the  part  he  would  have  me  play  was  that 
of  a  spy — an  informer!  A  creature  like — I  dared  not  say 
like  my  father,  yet  I  had  him  in  my  mind.  And  from  this, 
from  the  barest  suspicion  of  this,  I  shrank  as  the  burned 
puppy  from  the  fire — shrank  with  fierce  twitching  of  nerve 
and  sinew. 

Yet  if  I  would  not  accept  his  offer  it  was  clear  I  must 
fend  for  myself.  His  threats  meant  as  much  as  that,  and  I 
smiled  sternly  as  I  found  necessity  at  one  with  inclination. 
I  would  leave  Colon  End  at  once,  and  henceforth  I  would 
fight  for  my  own  hand.  I  would  have  no  name  until  I  had 
made  for  myself  a  new  one. 

This  resolve  formed,  I  turned  and  went  back  to  the 
house,  and  felt  my  way  to  my  own  chamber.  The  moon- 
light poured  through  the  lattice  and  fell  white  on  my  pallet. 
I  crossed  the  room  and  stood  still.  Down  the  middle  of 
the  coverlet — or  my  eyes  deceived  me — lay  a  dark  line. 

I  stooped  mechanically  to  see  what  this  was  and  found 
my  own  sword  lying  there  ;  the  sword  which  Sir  Anthony 
had  given  me  on  my  last  birthday.  But  how  had  it  come 
there  ?  As  I  took  it  up  something  soft  and  light  brushed  my 
hand  and  drooped  from  the  hilt.  Then  I  remembered.  A 


22  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE, 

week  before  I  had  begged  Petronilla  to  make  me  a  sword- 
knot  of  blue  velvet  for  use  on  state  occasions.  No  doubt 
she  had  done  it,  and  had  brought  the  sword  back  this  even- 
ing, and  laid  it  there  in  token  of  peace.  i 

I  sat  down  on  my  bed,  and  softer  and  kindlier  thoughts 
came  tome;  thoughts  of  love  and  gratitude,  in  which  the 
old  man  who  had  been  a  second  father  to  me  had  part.  I 
would  go  as  I  had  resolved,  but  I  would  return  to  them 
when  I  had  done  a  thing  worth  doing;  something  which 
should  efface  the  brand  that  lay  on  me  now. 

With  gentle  fingers  I  disengaged  the  velvet  knot  and 
thrust  it  into  my  bosom.  Then  I  tied  about  the  hilt  the  old 
leather  thong,  and  began  to  make  my  preparations;  consid- 
ing  this  or  that  route  while  I  hunted  for  my  dagger  and 
changed  my  doublet  and  hose  for  stouter  raiment  and  long, 
untanned  boots.  I  was  yet  in  the  midst  of  this,  when  a 
knock  at  the  door  startled  me. 

"Who  is  there?  "  I  asked,  standing  erect. 

For  answer  Martin  Luther  slid  in,  closing  the  door  behind 
him.  The  fool  did  not  speak,  but  turning  his  eyes  first  on 
one  thing  and  then  on  another  nodded  sagely. 

"Well?"  I  growled. 

"You  are  off,  master,"  he  said,  nodding  again.  "I 
thought  so." 

"Why  did  you  think  so?"  I  retorted  impatiently. 

"It  is  time  for  the  young  birds  to  fly  when  the  cuckoo 
begins  to  stir,"  he  answered. 

I  understood  him  dimly  and  in  part.  "You  have  been 
listening,"  I  said  wrathfully,  my  cheeks  burning. 

"And  been  kicked  in  the  face  like  a  fool  for  my  pains," 
he  answered.  "Ah,  well,  it  is  better  to  be  kicked  by  the 
boot  you  love  than  kissed  by  the  lips  you  hate.  But  Master 
Francis,  Master  Francis!"  he  continued  in  a  whisper. 

He  said  no  more,  and  I  looked  up.  The  man  was  stoop- 
ing slightly  forward,  his  pale  face  thrust  out.  There  was  a 
strange  gleam  in  his  eyes,  and  his  teeth  grinned  in  the 
moonlight.  Thrice  he  drew  his  finger  across  his  lean 
knotted  throat.  "Shall  I?"  he  hissed,  his  hot  breath 
reaching  me,  "shall  I?" 

I  recoiled  from  him  shuddering.  It  was  a  ghastly  pan- 
tomime, and  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  saw  madness  in  his  eyes. 


IN   THE  BISHOP'S  ROOM.  23 

"In  Heaven's  name,  no!"  I  cried — "No!  Do  you  hear, 
Martin?  No!" 

He  stood  back  on  the  instant,  as  a  dog  might  have  done 
being  reproved.  But  I  could  hardly  finish  in  comfort  after 
that  with  him  standing  there,  although  when  I  next  turned 
to  him  he  seemed  half  asleep  and  his  eyes  were  dull  and 
fishy  as  ever. 

"One  thing  you  can  do,"  I  said  brusquely.  Then  I 
hesitated,  looking  round  me.  I  wished  to  send  something 
to  Petronilla,  some  word,  some  keepsake.  But  I  had  noth- 
ing that  would  serve  a  maid's  purpose,  and  could  think  of 
nothing  until  my  eye  lit  on  a  house-martin's  nest,  lying 
where  I  had  cast  it  on  the  window-sill.  I  had  taken  it 
down  that  morning  because  the  droppings  during  the  last 
summer  had  fallen  on  the  lead  work,  and  I  would  not  have 
it  used  when  the  swallows  returned.  It  was  but  a  bit  of 
clay,  and  yet  it  would  serve.  She  would  guess  its  meaning. 

I  gave  it  into  his  hands.  "Take  this,"  I  said,  "and  give 
it  privately  to  Mistress  Petronilla.  Privately,  you  under- 
stand. And  say  nothing  to  any  one,  or  the  Bishop  will 
flay  your  back,  Martin." 


CHAPTER  III. 
"DOWN  WITH  PURVEYORS!" 

THE  first  streak  of  daylight  found  me  already  footing  it 
through  the  forest  by  paths  known  to  few  save  the 
woodcutters,  but  with  which  many  a  boyish  exploration  had 
m.ide  me  familiar.  From  Coton  End  the  London  road  lies 
plain  and  fair  through  Stratford-on-Avon  and  Oxford.  But 
my  plan,  the  better  to  evade  pursuit,  was,  instead,  to  cross 
the  forest  in  a  northeasterly  direction,  and,  passing  by  War- 
wick, to  strike  the  great  north  road  between  Coventry  and 
Daventry,  which,  running  thence  southeastward,  would  take 
me  as  straight  as  a  bird  might  fly  through  Dunstable,  St. 
Albans,  and  Barnet,  to  London.  My  baggage  consisted 
only  of  my  cloak,  sword,  and  dagger;  and  for  money  I  had 
but  a  gold  angel,  and  a  few  silver  bits  of  doubtful  value. 
But  I  trusted  that  this  store,  slender  as  it  was,  would  meet 
my  charges  as  far  as  London.  Once  there  I  must  depend 
on  my  wits  either  for  providence  at  home  or  a  passage 
abroad. 

Striding  steadily  up  and  down  hill,  for  Arden  Forest  is 
made  up  of  hills  and  dells  which  follow  one  another  as  do 
the  wave  and  trough  of  the  sea,  only  less  regularly,  I  made 
my  way  toward  Wootton  Wawen.  As  soon  as  I  espied  its 
battlemented  church  lying  in  a  wooded  bottom  below  me,  I 
kept  a  more  easterly  course,  and,  leaving  Henley-in-Arden 
far  to  the  left,  passed  down  toward  Leek  Wootton.  The 
damp,  dead  bracken  underfoot,  the  leafless  oaks  and  gray 
sky  overhead,  nay  the  very  cry  of  the  bittern  fishing  in  the 
bottoms,  seemed  to  be  at  one  with  my  thoughts;  for  these 
were  dreary  and  sad  enough. 

But  hope  and  a  fixed  aim  form  no  bad  makeshifts  for 
happiness.  Striking  the  broad  London  road  as  I  had  pur- 
posed I  slept  that  night  at  Ryton  Dunsmoor,  and  the  next 
at  Towcester;  and  the  third  day,  which  rose  bright  and 
frosty,  found  me  stepping  gayly  southward,  travel-stained 
indeed,  but  dry  and  whole.  My  spirits  rose  with  the  tem- 
perature. For  a  time  I  put  the  past  behind  me,  and  found 
amusement  in  the  sights  of  the  road ;  in  the  heavy  wagons 
and  long  trains  of  pack-horses,  and  the  cheery  greetings 


DOWN   WITH  PURVEYORS,  25 

which  met  me  with  each  mile.  After  all,  I  had  youth  and 
strength,  and  the  world  before  me;  and  particularly  Stony 
Stratford,  where  I  meant  to  dine. 

There  was  one  trouble  common  among  wayfarers  which 
did  not  touch  me;  and  that  was  the  fear  of  robbers,  for  he 
would  be  a  sturdy  beggar  who  would  rob  an  armed  foot- 
passenger  for  the  sake  of  an  angel;  and  the  groats  were 
gone.  So  I  felt  no  terrors  on  that  account,  and  even  when 
about  noon  I  heard  a  horseman  trot  up  behind  me,  and  rein 
in  his  horse  so  as  to  keep  pace  with  me  at  a  walk,  step  for 
step — a  thing  which  might  have  seemed  suspicious  to  some 
— I  took  no  heed  of  him.  I  was  engaged  with  my  first  view 
of  Stratford,  and  did  not  turn  my  head.  We  had  walked 
on  so  for  fifty  paces  or  more,  before  it  struck  me  as  odd 
that  the  man  did  not  pass  me. 

Then  I  turned,  and  shading  my  eyes  from  the  sun,  which 
stood  just  over  his  shoulder,  said,  ''Good-day,  friend." 

"Good-day,  master,"  he  answered. 

He  was  a  stout  fellow,  looking  like  a  citizen,  although  he 
had  a  sword  by  his  side,  and  wore  it  with  an  air  of  impor- 
tance which  the  sunshine  of  opportunity  might  have  ripened 
into  a  swagger.  His  dress  was  plain;  and  he  sat  a  good 
hackney  as  a  miller's  sack  might  have  sat  it.  His  face  was 
the  last  thing  I  looked  at.  When  I  raised  my  eyes  to  it,  I 
got  an  unpleasant  start.  The  man  was  no  stranger.  I 
knew  him  in  a  moment  for  the  messenger  who  had  sum- 
moned me  to  the  Chancellor's  presence. 

The  remembrance  did  not  please  me;  and  reading  in  the 
fellow's  sly  look  that  he  recognized  me,  and  thought  he  had 
made  a  happy  discovery  on  finding  me,  I  halted  abruptly. 
He  did  the  same. 

"It  is  a  fine  morning,"  he  said,  taken  aback  by  my  sud- 
den movement,  but  affecting  an  indifference  which  the 
sparkle  in  his  eye  belied.  "A  rare  day  for  the  time  of 
year." 

"It  is,"  I  answered,  gazing  steadily  at  him. 

"Going  to  London?  Or  may  be  only  to  Stratford?"  he 
hazarded.  He  fidgeted  uncomfortably  under  my  eye,  but 
still  pretended  ignorance  of  me. 

"That  is  as  may  be,"  I  answered. 

"No  offense,  I  am  sure,"  he  said. 

I  cast  a  quick   glance  up  and  down  the  road.     There 


26  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

happened  to  be  no  one  in  sight.  "Look  here!"  I  replied, 
stepping  forward  to  lay  my  hand  on  the  horse's  shoulder — 
but  the  man  reined  back  and  prevented  me,  thereby  giving 
me  a  clew  to  his  character — "you  are  in  the  service  of  the 
Bishop  of  Winchester?" 

His  face  fell,  and  he  could  not  conceal  his  disappoint- 
ment at  being  recognized.  "Well,  master,"  he  answered 
reluctantly,  "perhaps  I  am,  and  perhaps  I  am  not." 

"That  is  enough,"  I  said  shortly.  "And  you  know  me. 
You  need  not  lie  about  it,  man,  for  1  can  see  you  do.  Now, 
look  here,  Master  Steward,  or  whatever  your  name  may 

"It  is  Master  Pritchard,"  he  put  in  sulkily;  "and  I  am 
not  ashamed  of  it." 

"Very  well.  Then  let  us  understand  one  another.  Do 
you  mean  to  interfere  with  me?" 

He  grinned.  "Well,  to  be  plain,  I  do,"  he  replied,  rein- 
ing his  horse  back  another  step.  "I  have  orders  to  look  out 
for  you,  and  have  you  stopped  if  I  find  you.  And  I  must 
do  my  duty,  sir;  I  am  sworn  to  it,  Master  Cludde." 

"Right,"  said  I  calmly;  "and  I  must  do  mine,  which  is 
to  take  care  of  my  skin."  And  I  drew  my  sword  and 
advanced  upon  him  with  a  flourish.  "We  will  soon  decide 
this  little  matter,"  I  added  grimly,  one  eye  on  him  and  one 
on  the  empty  road,  "if  you  will  be  good  enough  to  defend 
yourself." 

But  there  was  no  fight  in  the  fellow.  By  good  luck,  too, 
he  was  so  startled  that  he  did  not  do  what  he  might  have 
done  with  safety ;  namely,  retreat,  and  keep  me  in  sight 
until  some  passers-by  came  up.  He  did  give  back,  indeed, 
but  it  was  against  the  bank.  "Have  a  care,"  he  cried  in 
a  fume,  his  eye  following  my  sword  nervously;  he  did  not 
try  to  draw  his  own.  "There  is  no  call  for  fighting,  I  say. ' ' 

"But  I  say  there  is,"  I  replied  bluntly.  "Call  and 
cause!  Either  you  fight  me,  or  I  go  where  I  please." 

"You  may  go  to  Bath  for  me!"  he  spluttered,  his  face 
the  color  of  a  turkey-cock's  wattles  with  rage. 

"Do  you  mean  it,  my  friend?"  I  said,  and  I  played  my 
point  about  his  leg,  half-minded  to  give  him  a  little  prod  by 
way  of  earnest.  "Make  up  your  mind." 

"Yes!"  he  shrieked  out,  suspecting  my  purpose,  and 
bouncing  about  in  his  saddle  like  a  parched  pea.  "Yes,  I 


DOWN   WITH  PURVEYORS,  27 

say!"  he  roared.  "Do  you  hear  me?  You  go  your  way, 
and  I  will  go  mine." 

"That  is  a  bargain,"  I  said  quietly;  "and  mind  you 
keep  to  it." 

I  put  up  my  sword  with  my  face  turned  from  him,  lest  he 
should  see  the  curl  of  my  lip  and  the  light  in  my  eyes.  In 
truth,  I  was  uncommonly  well  pleased  with  myself,  and  was 
thinking  that  if  I  came  through  all  my  adventures  as  well,  I 
should  do  merrily.  Outwardly,  however,  I  tried  to  ignore 
my  victory,  and  to  make  things  as  easy  as  I  could  for  my 
friend — if  one  may  call  a  man  who  will  not  fight  him  a 
friend,  a  thing  I  doubt.  "Which  way  are  you  going?"  I 
asked  amicably;  "to  Stratford?" 

He  nodded,  for  he  was  too  sulky  to  speak. 

"All  right!"  I  said  cheerfully,  feeling  that  my  dignity 
could  take  care  of  itself  now.  "Then  so  far  we  may  go 
together.  Only  do  you  remember  the  terms.  After  din- 
ner each  goes  his  own  way." 

He  nodded  again,  and  we  turned,  and  went  on  in  silence, 
eying  one  another  askance,  like  two  ill-matched  dogs 
coupled  together.  But,  luckily,  our  forced  companionship 
did  not  last  long,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  and  a  bend  in  the  road 
bringing  us  to  the  first  low,  gray  houses  of  Stratford;  a 
long,  straggling  village  it  seemed,  made  up  of  inns  strewn 
along  the  road,  like  beads  threaded  on  a  rosary.'  And  to 
be  sure,  to  complete  the  likeness,  we  came  presently  upon 
an  ancient  stone  cross  standing  on  the  green.  I  pulled  up 
in  front  of  this  with  a  sigh  of  pleasure,  for  on  either  side  of 
it,  one  facing  the  other,  was  an  inn  of  the  better  class. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "which  shall  it  be?  The  Rose  and 
Crown,  or  the  Crown  without  the  Rose?" 

"Choose  for  yourself,"  he  answered  churlishly.  "I  go 
to  the  other." 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders.  After  all,  you  cannot  make  a 
silk  purse  out  of  a  sow's  ear,  and  if  a  man  has  not  courage 
he  is  not  likely  to  have  good-fellowship.  But  the  words 
angered  me,  nevertheless,  for  a  shabby,  hulking  fellow 
lounging  at  my  elbow  overheard  them  and  grinned;  a  hic- 
coughing, blear-eyed  man  he  was  as  I  had  ever  met,  with 
a  red  nose  and  the  rags  of  a  tattered  cassock  about  him.  I 
turned  away  in  annoyance,  and  chose  the  "Crown"  at  haz- 
ard ;  and  pushing  my  way  through  a  knot  of  horses  that 


28  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

stood  tethered  at  the  door,  went  in,  leaving  the  two  to  their 
devices. 

I  found  a  roaring  fire  in  the  great  room,  and  three  or  four 
yeomen  standing  about  it,  drinking  ale.  But  I  was  hot 
.from  walking,  so,  after  saluting  them  and  ordering  my  meal, 
I  went  and  sat  for  choice  on  a  bench  by  the  window  away 
from  the  fire.  The  window  was  one  of  a  kind  common  in 
Warwickshire  houses ;  long  and  low  and  beetle-browed,  the 
story  above  projecting  over  it.  I  sat  here  a  minute  looking 
idly  out  -at  the  inn  opposite,  a  heavy  stone  building  with  a 
walled  courtyard  attached  to  it;  such  an  inn  as  was  com- 
mon enough  about  the  time  of  the  Wars  of  the  Roses  when 
wayfarers  looked  rather  for  safety  than  comfort.  Presently 
I  saw  a  boy  come  out  of  it  and  start  up  the  road  at  a  run. 
Then,  a  minute  later,  the  ragged  fellow  I  had  seen  on  the 
green  came  out  and  lurched  across  the  road.  He  seemed  to 
be  making,  though  uncertainly,  for  my  inn,  and,  sure 
enough,  just  as  my  bread  and  bacon — the  latter  hot  and 
hissing — were  put  before  me,  he  staggered  into  the  room, 
bringing  a  strong  smell  of  ale  and  onions  with  him.  "Pax 
vobiscum!"  he  said,  leering  at  me  with  tipsy  solemnity. 

I  guessed  what  he  was — a  monk,  one  of  those  unfortu- 
nates still  to  be  found  here  and  there  up  and  down  the  coun- 
try, whom  King  Henry,  when  he  put  down  the  monasteries, 
had  made  homeless.  I  did  not  look  on  the  class  with  much 
favor,  thinking  that  for  most  of  them  the  cloister,  even  if  the 
Queen  should  succeed  in  setting  the  abbeys  on  their  legs 
again,  would  have  few  attractions.  But  I  saw  that  the  sim- 
ple farmers  received  his  scrap  of  Latin  with  respect,  and  I 
nodded  civilly  as  I  went  on  with  my  meal. 

I  was  not  to  get  off  so  easily,  however.  He  came  and 
planted  himself  opposite  to  me. 

"Pax  vobiscum,  my  son,"  he  repeated.  "The  ale  is 
cheap  here,  and  good." 

"So  is  the  ham,  good  father,"  I  replied  cheerfully,  not 
pausing  in  my  attack  on  the  victuals.  "I  will  answer  for 
so  much." 

"Well,  well,"  the  knave  replied  with  ready  wit,  "I 
breakfasted  early.  I  am  content.  Landlord,  another  plate 
and  a  full  tankard.  The  young  gentleman  would  have  me 
dine  with  him." 


DOWN    WITH  PURVEYORS.  29 

I  could  not  tell  whether  to  be  angry  or  to  laugh  at  his 
impudence. 

"The  gentleman  says  he  will  answer  for  it!"  repeated 
the  rascal,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  as  the  landlord  hesi- 
tated. He  was  by  no  means  so  drunk  as  he  looked. 

"No,  no,  father,"  I  cried,  joining  in  the  general  laugh 
into  which  the  farmers  by  the  fire  broke.  "A  cup  of  ale  is 
in  reason,  and  for  that  I  will  pay,  but  for  no  more.  Drink 
it,  and  wish  me  Godspeed." 

"I  will  do  more  than  that,  lad,"  he  answered.  Swaying 
to  and  fro  my  cup,  which  he  had  seized  in  his  grasp,  he  laid 
his  hand  on  the  window-ledge  beside  me,  as  though  to 
steady  himself,  and  stooped  until  his  coarse,  puffy  face  was 
but  a  few  inches  from  mine.  "More  than  that,"  he  whis- 
pered hoarsely;  and  his  eyes,  peering  into  mine,  were  now 
sober  and  full  of  meaning.  "If  you  do  not  want  to  be  put 
in  the  stocks  or  worse,  make  tracks!  Make  tracks,  lad!" 
he  continued.  "Your  friend  over  there — he  is  a  niggardly 
oaf — has  sent  for  the  hundredman  and  the  constable,  and 
you  are  the  quarry.  So  the  word  is,  Go!  That,"  he 
added  aloud,  standing  erect  again,  with  a  drunken  smile, 
"is  for  your  cup  of  ale;  and  good  coin  too!" 

For  half  a  minute  I  sat  quite  still  ;  taken  aback,  and 
wondering,  while  the  bacon  cooled  on  the  plate  before  me, 
what  I  was  to  do.  I  did  not  doubt  the  monk  was  telling 
the  truth.  Why  should  he  lie  to  me?  And  I  cursed  my 
folly  in  trusting  to  a  coward's  honor  or  a  serving-man's 
good  faith.  But  lamentations  were  useless.  What  was  I  to 
do?  I  had  no  horse,  and  no  means  of  getting  one.  I  was 
in  a  strange  country,  and  to  try  to  escape  on  foot  from  pur- 
suers who  knew  the  roads,  and  had  the  law  on  their  side, 
would  be  a  hopeless  undertaking.  Yet  to  be  haled  back 
to  Coton  End  a  prisoner — I  could  not  face  that.  Mechan- 
ically I  raised  a  morsel  of  bacon  to  my  lips,  and  as  I  did 
so,  a  thought  occurred  to  me — an  idea  suggested  by  some 
talk  I  had  heard  the  evening  before  at  Towcester. 

Fanciful  as  the  plan  was,  I  snatched  at  it;  and  knowing 
each  instant  to  be  precious,  took  my  courage  in  my  hand 
— and  my  tankard.  "Here,"  I  cried,  speaking  suddenly 
and  loudly,  "here  is  bad  luck  to  purveyors,  Master  Host!" 

There  were  a  couple  of  stablemen  within  hearing,  loung- 
ing in  the  doorway,  besides  the  landlord  and  his  wife  and 


3°  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

the  farmers.  A  villager  or  two  also  had  dropped  in,  and 
there  were  two  peddlers  lying  half  asleep  in  the  corner. 
All  these  pricked  up  their  ears  more  or  less  at  my  words. 
But,  like  most  country  folk,  they  were  slow  to  take  in  any- 
thing new  or  unexpected;  and  I  had  to  drink  afresh  and 
say  again,  "Here  is  bad  luck  to  purveyors !"  before  any 
one  took  it  up. 

Then  the  landlord  showed  he  understood. 

"Ay,  so  say  I!"  he  cried,  with  an  oath.  "Purveyors, 
indeed!  It  is  such  as  they  give  the  Queen  a  bad  name." 

"God  bless  her!"  quoth  the  monk  loyally. 

"And  drown  the  purveyors!"  a  farmer  exclaimed. 

"They  were  here  a  year  ago,  and  left  us  as  bare  as  a 
shorn  sheep,"  struck  in  a  strapping  villager,  speaking  at  a 
white  heat,  but  telling  me  no  news;  for  this  was  what  I  had 
heard  at  Towcester  the  night  before.  "The  Queen  should 
lie  warm  if  she  uses  all  the  wool  they  took !  And  the  pack- 
horses  they  purveyed  to  carry  off  the  plunder — why,  the 
packmen  avoid  Stratford  ever  since  as  though  we  had  the 
Black  Death!  Oh,  down  with  the  purveyors,  say  I!  The 
first  that  comes  this  way  I  will  show  the  bottom  of  the  Ouse. 
Ay,  that  I  will,  though  I  hang  for  it!" 

"Easy!  easy,  Tom  Miller!"  the  host  interposed,  affect- 
ing an  air  of  assurance,  even  while  he  cast  an  eye  of  trouble 
at  his  flitches.  "It  will  be  another  ten  years  before  they 
harry  us  again.  There  is  Potter's  Pury!  They  never  took 
a  tester's  worth  from  Potter's  Pury!  No,  nor  from  Preston 
Gobion!  But  they  will  go  to  them  next,  depend  upon 
it!" 

"I  hope  they  will,"  I  said,  with  a  world  of  gloomy  insin- 
uation in  my  words.  "But  I  doubt  it!" 

And  this  time  my  hint  was  not  wasted.  The  landlord 
changed  color.  "What  are  you  driving  at,  master?"  he 
asked  mildly,  while  the  others  looked  at  me  in  silence  and 
waited  for  more. 

"What  if  there  be  one  across  the  road  now!"  I  said, 
giving  way  to  the  temptation,  and  speaking  falsely — for 
which  I  paid  dearly  afterward.  "A  purveyor,  I  mean, 
unless  I  am  mistaken  in  him,  or  he  tells  lies.  He  has  come 
straight  from  the  Chancellor,  white  wand,  warrant,  and  all. 
He  is  taking  his  dinner  now,  but  he  has  sent  for  the  hun- 
dredman,  so  I  guess  he  means  business." 


DOWN    WITH  PURVEYORS.  31 

"For  the  hundredman?"  repeated  the  landlord,  his  brows 
meeting. 

"Yes;  unless  I  am  mistaken." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  Then  the  man  they 
called  Tom  Miller  dashed  his  cap  on  the  floor  and,  folding 
his  arms  defiantly,  looked  round  on  his  neighbors.  "He 
has  come,  has  he!"  he  roared,  his  face  swollen,  his  eyes 
bloodshot.  "Then  I  will  be  as  good  as  my  word!  Who 
will  help?  Shall  we  sit  down  and  be  shorn  like  sheep,  as 
we  were  before,  so  that  our  children  lay  on  the  bare  stones, 
and  we  pulled  the  plow  ourselves?  Or  shall  we  show  that 
we  are  free  Englishmen,  and  not  slaves  of  Frenchmen? 
Shall  we  teach  Master  Purveyor  not  to  trouble  us  again? 
Now,  what  say  you,  neighbors?" 

So  fierce  a  growl  of  impatience  and  anger  rose  round  me 
as  at  once  answered  the  question.  A  dozen  red  faces 
glared  at  me  and  at  one  another,  and  from  the  very  motion 
and  passion  of  the  men  as  they  snarled  and  threatened,  the 
room  seemed  twice  as  full  as  it  was.  Their  oaths  and  cries 
of  encouragement,  not  loud,  but  the  more  dangerous  for 
that,  the  fresh  burst  of  fury  which  rose  as  the  village  smith 
and  another  came  in  and  learned  the  news,  the  menacing 
gestures  of  a  score  of  brandished  fists — these  sights,  though 
they  told  of  the  very  effect  at  which  I  had  aimed,  scared  as 
well  as  pleased  me.  I  turned  red  and  white,  and  hesitated, 
fearing  that  I  had  gone  too  far. 

The  thing  was  done,  however;  and,  what  was  more,  I 
had  soon  to  take  care  of  myself.  At  the  very  moment  when 
the  hubbub  was  at  its  loudest  I  felt  a  chill  run  down  my 
back  as  I  met  the  monk's  eye,  and,  reading  in  it  whimsical 
admiration,  read  in  it  something  besides,  and  that  was  an  un- 
mistakable menace.  "Clever  lad!"  the  eye  said.  "I  will 
expose  you,"  it  threatened. 

I  had  forgotten  him — or,  at  any  rate,  that  my  acting  would 
be  transparent  enough  to  him  holding  the  clew  in  his  hand 
— and  his  look  was  like  the  shock  of  cold  water  to  me. 
But  it  is  wonderful  how  keen  the  wits  grow  on  the  grind- 
stone of  necessity.  With  scarcely  a  second's  hesitation  I 
drew  out  my  only  piece  of  gold,  and  unnoticed  by  the  other 
men,  who  were  busy  swearing  at  and  encouraging  one 
another,  I  disclosed  a  morsel  of  it.  The  monk's  crafty  eye 
glistened.  I  laid  my  finger  on  my  lips. 


32  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE.  ' 

He  held  up  two  fingers. 

I  shook  my  head  and  showed  an  empty  palm.  I  had  no 
more.  He  nodded;  and  the  relief  that  nod  gave  me  was 
great.  Before  I  had  time,  however,  to  consider  the  nar- 
rowness of  my  escape,  a  movement  of  the  crowd — for  the 
news  had  spread  with  strange  swiftness,  and  there  was  now 
a  crowd  assembled  which  more  than  filled  the  room — pro- 
claimed that  the  purveyor  had  come  out,  and  was  in  the 
street. 

The  room  was  nearly  emptied  at  a  rush.  Though  I  pru- 
dently remained  behind,  I  could,  through  the  open  window, 
hear  as  well  as  see  what  passed.  The  leading  spirits  had 
naturally  struggled  out  first,  and  were  gathered,  sullen  and 
full  of  dangerous  possibilities,  about  the  porch. 

I  suppose  the  Bishop's  messenger  saw  in  them  nothing 
but  a  crowd  of  country  clowns,  for  he  came  hectoring 
toward  the  door,  smiting  his  boot  with  his  whip,  and  puffing 
out  his  red  cheeks  mightily.  He  felt  brave  enough,  now 
that  he  had  dined  and  had  at  his  back  three  stout  consta- 
bles sworn  to  keep  the  Queen's  peace. 

"Make  way!  Make  way,  there,  do  you  hear?"  he  cried 
in  a  husky,  pompous  voice.  "Make  way!"  he  repeated, 
lightly  touching  the  nearest  man  with  his  switch.  "I  am 
on  the  Queen's  service,  boobies,  and  must  not  be  hindered." 

The  man  swore  at  him,  but  did  not  budge,  and  the  bully, 
brought  up  thus  sharply,  awoke  to  the  lowering  faces  and 
threatening  looks  which  confronted  him.  He  changed  color 
a  little.  But  the  ale  was  still  in  him,  and,  forgetting  his 
natural  discretion,  he  thought  to  carry  matters  with  a  high 
hand.  "Come!  come!"  he  exclaimed  angrily.  "I  have  a 
warrant,  and  you  resist  me  at  your  peril.  I  have  to  enter 
this  house.  Clear  the  way,  Master  Hundredman,  and 
break  these  fellows'  heads  if  they  withstand  you." 

A  growl  as  of  a  dozen  bulldogs  answered  him,  and  he  drew 
back,  as  a  child  might  who  has  trodden  on  an  adder. 
"You  fools!"  he  spluttered,  glaring  at  them  viciously. 
"Are  you  mad?  Do  you  know  what  you  are  doing?  Do 
you  see  this?"  He  whipped  out  from  some  pocket  a  short 
white  staff  and  brandished  it.  "1  come  direct  from  th'e  Lord 
Chancellor  and  upon  his  business,  do  you  hear,  and  if  you 
resist  me  it  is  treason.  Treason,  you  dogs!"  he  cried, 


DOWN   WITH  PURVEYORS.  33 

his  rage  getting  the  better  of  him,  "and  like  dogs  you  will 
hang  for  it.  Master  Hundredman,  I  order  you  to  take  in 
your  constables  and  arrest  that  man!" 

"What  man?"  quoth  Tom  Miller,  eying  him  fixedly. 

"The  stranger  who  came  in  an  hour  ago,  and  is  inside 
the  house." 

"Him,  he  means,  who  told  about  the  purveyor  across  the 
road,"  explained  the  monk  with  a  wink. 

That  wink  sufficed.  There  was  a  roar  of  execration,  and 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  the  Jack-in-office,  tripped  up 
this  way  and  shoved  that,  was  struggling  helplessly  in  the 
grasp  of  half  a  dozen  men,  who  fought  savagely  for  his 
body  with  the  Hundredman  and  the  constables. 

"To  the  river!  To  the  Ouse  with  him!"  yelled  the  mob. 
"In  the  Queen's  name!"  shouted  the  officers.  But  these 
were  to  those  as  three  to  a  score,  and  taken  by  surprise 
besides,  and  doubtful  of  the  rights  of  the  matter.  Yet  for 
an  instant,  as  the  crowd  went  reeling  and  fighting  down  the 
road,  they  prevailed;  the  constables  managed  to  drag  their 
leader  free,  and  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  him,  wild-eyed  and 
frantic  with  fear,  his  clothes  torn  from  his  back,  standing  at 
bay  like  some  animal,  and  brandishing  his  staff  in  one  hand, 
a  packet  of  letters  in  the  other. 

"I  have  letters,  letters  of  state!"  he  screamed  shrilly. 
"Let  me  alone,  I  tell  you!  Let  me  go,  you  curs!" 

But  in  vain.  The  next  instant  the  mob  were  upon  him 
again.  The  packet  of  letters  went  one  way,  the  staff  was 
dashed  another.  He  was  thrown  down  and  plucked  up 
again,  and  hurried,  bruised  and  struggling,  toward  the  river, 
his  screams  for  mercy  and  furious  threats  rising  shrilly 
above  the  oaths  and  laughter. 

I  felt  myself  growing  pale  as  scream  followed  scream. 
"They  will  kill  him!"  I  exclaimed  trembling,  and  pre- 
pared to  follow.  "I  cannot  see  this  done." 

But  the  monk,  who  had  returned  to  my  side,  grasped  my 
arm.  "Don't  be  a  fool,"  he  said  sharply.  "I  will  answer 
for  it  they  will  not  kill  him.  Tom  Miller  is  not  a  fool, 
though  he  is  angry.  He  will  duck  him,  and  let  him  go. 
But  I  will  trouble  you  for  that  bit  of  gold,  young  gentle- 
man." 

I  gave  it  to  him. 

"Now,"  he  continued  with  a  leer,  "I  will  give  you  a  hint 


34  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

in  return.  If  you  are  wise,  you  will  be  out  of  this  county 
in  twelve  hours.  Tethered  to  the  gate  over  there  is  a  good 
horse  which  belongs  to  a  certain  purveyor  now  in  the  river. 
Take  it!  There  is  no  one  to  say  you  nay.  And  begone!" 

I  looked  hard  at  him  for  a  minute,  my  heart  beating  fast. 
This  was  horse-stealing.  And  horse-stealing  was  a  hanging 
matter.  But  I  had  done  so  much  already  that  I  felt  I 
might  as  well  be  hanged  for  a  sheep  as  for  a  lamb.  I  was 
not  sure  that  I  had  not  incited  to  treason,  and  what  was 
stealing  a  horse  beside  that?  "I  will  do  it!"  I  said  des- 
perately. 

"Don't  lose  time,  then,"  quoth  my  mentor. 

I  went  out  then  and  there,  and  found  he  had  told  the 
truth.  Every  soul  in  the  place  had  gone  to  see  the  duck- 
ing, and  the  street  was  empty.  Kicked  aside  in  the  road- 
way lay  the  bundle  of  letters,  soiled  but  not  torn,  and  in 
the  gutter  was  the  staff.  I  stooped  and  picked  up  one  and 
the  other — in  for  a  Iamb,  in  for  a  sheep!  and  they  might  be 
useful  some  day.  Then  I  jumped  into  the  saddle,  and 
twitched  the  reins  off  the  hook. 

But  before  I  could  drive  in  the  spurs,  a  hand  fell  on  the 
bridle,  and  the  monk's  face  appeared  at  my  knee.  "Well?" 
I  said,  glaring  down  at  him — I  was  burning  to  be  away. 

"That  is  a  good  cloak  you  have  got  there,"  he  muttered 
hurriedly.  "There,  strapped  to  the  saddle,  you  fool.  You 
do  not  want  that,  give  it  me.  Do  you  hear?  Quick,  give  it 
me,"  he  cried,  raising  his  voice  and  clutching  at  it  fiercely, 
his  face  dark  with  greed  and  fear. 

"I  see,"  I  replied,  as  I  unstrapped  it.  "I  am  to  steal 
the  horse  that  you  may  get  the  cloak.  And  then  you  will 
lay  the  lot  on  my  shoulders.  Well,  take  it!"  I  cried,  "and 
go  your  way  as  fast  as  you  can." 

Throwing  it  at  him  as  hard  as  I  could,  I  shook  up  the 
reins  and  went  off  down  the  road  at  a  gallop.  The  wind 
whistled  pleasantly  past  my  ears.  The  sounds  of  the  town 
grew  faint  and  distant.  Each  bound  of  the  good  hack 
carried  me  farther  and  farther  from  present  danger,  farther 
and  farther  from  the  old  life.  In  the  exhilaration  and  ex- 
citement of  the  moment  I  forgot  my  condition;  forgot  that 
I  had  not  a  penny-piece  in  my  pocket,  and  that  I  had  left 
an  unpaid  bill  behind  me;  forgot  even  that  I  rode  a — well, 
a  borrowed  horse. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

TWO   SISTERS   OF    MERCY. 

A  YOUNGER  generation  has  often  posed  me  finely  by 
asking,  "What,  Sir  Francis!  Did  you  not  see  one 
bishop  burned?  Did  you  not  know  one  of  the  martyrs? 
Did  you  never  come  face  to  face  with  Queen  Mary?"  To 
all  which  questions  I  have  one  answer,  No,  and  I  watch 
small  eyes  grow  large  with  astonishment.  But  the  truth  is, 
a  man  can  only  be  at  one  place  at  a  time.  And  though,  in 
this  very  month  of  February,  1555,  Prebendary  Rogers — a 
good,  kindly  man,  as  I  have  heard,  who  had  a  wife  and 
nine  children — was  burned  in  Smithfield  in  London  for 
religion,  and  the  Bishop  of  Gloucester  suffered  in  his  own 
city,  and  other  inoffensive  men  were  burned  to  death,  and 
there  was  much  talk  of  these  things,  and  in  thousands  of 
breasts  a  smoldering  fire  was  kindled  which  blazed  high 
enough  by  and  by — why,  I  was  at  Coton  End,  or  on  the 
London  Road,  at  the  time,  and  learned  such  things  only 
dimly  and  by  hearsay. 

But  the  rill  joins  the  river  at  last;  and  ofttimes  sud- 
denly and  at  a  bound,  as  it  were.  On  this  very  day,  while 
I  cantered  easily  southward  with  my  face  set  toward  St. 
Albans,  Providence  was  at  work  shaping  a  niche  for  me  in 
the  lives  of  certain  people  who  were  at  the  time  as  uncon- 
scious of  my  existence  as  I  was  of  theirs.  In  a  great  house 
in  the  Barbican  in  London  there  was  much  stealthy  going 
and  coming  on  this  February  afternoon  and  evening.  Be- 
hind locked  doors,  and  in  fear  and  trembling,  mails  were 
being  packed  and  bags  strapped,  and  fingers  almost  too 
delicate  for  the  task  were  busy  with  nails  and  hammers, 
securing  this  and  closing  that.  The  packers  knew  nothing 
of  me,  nor  I  of  them.  Yet  but  for  me  all  that  packing 
would  have  been  of  no  avail;  and  but  for  them  my  fate 
might  have  been  very  different.  Still,  the  sound  of  the 
hammer  did  not  reach  my  ears,  or,  doing  so,  was  covered  by 
the  steady  tramp  of  the  roadster;  and  no  vision,  so  far  as  I 
ever  heard,  of  a  dusty  youth  riding  Londonward  came 
between  the  secret  workers  and  their  task. 

I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  sleep  at  St.  Albans  that  night, 


3&  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

and  for  this  reason,  and  for  others  relating  to  the  Sheriff  of 
Buckinghamshire,  in  which  county  Stony  Stratford  lies,  I 
pushed  on  briskly.  I  presently  found  time,  however,  to  ex- 
amine the  packet  of  letters  of  which  I  had  made  spoil.  On 
the  outer  wrapper  I  found  there  was  no  address,  only  an 
exhortation  to  be  speedy.  Off  this  came,  therefore,  without 
ceremony,  and  was  left  in  the  dirt.  Inside  I  found  two 
sealed  epistles,  each  countersigned  on  the  wrapper, 
"Stephen  Winton." 

"Ho!  ho!"  said  I.  "I  did  well  to  take  them." 
Over  the  signature  on  the  first  letter — it  seemed  to  be 
written  on  parchment — were  the  words,  "Haste!  haste! 
haste!"  This  was  the  thicker  and  heavier  of  the  two,  and 
was  addressed  to  Sir  Maurice  Berkeley,  at  St.  Mary  Overy's, 
Southwark,  London.  I  turned  it  over  and  over  in  my 
hands,  and  peeped  into  it,  hesitating.  Twice  I  muttered, 
"All  is  fair  in  love  and  war!"  And  at  last,  with  curiosity 
fully  awake,  and  a  glance  behind  me  to  make  sure  that  the 
act  was  unobserved,  I  broke  the  seal.  The  document 
proved  to  be  as  short  and  pithy  as  it  was  startling.  It  was 
an  order  commanding  Sir  Maurice  Berkeley  forthwith  in  the 
Queen's  name,  and  by  the  authority  of  the  Council,  and  so 
on,  and  so  on,  to  arrest  Katherine  Willoughby  de  Eresby, 
Duchess  of  Suffolk,  and  to  deliver  her  into  the  custody  of 
the  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  "These  presents  to  be  his 
waranty  -for  the  detention  of  the  said  Duchess  of  Suffolk 
until  her  Grace's  pleasure  in  the  matter  be  known." 

When  it  was  too  late  I  trembled  to  think  what  I  had 
done.  To  meddle  with  matters  of  state  might  be  more 
dangerous  a  hundred  times  than  stealing  horses,  or  even 
than  ducking  the  Chancellor's  messenger!  Seeing  at  this 
moment  a  party  of  travelers  approach,  I  crammed  the  letter 
into  my  pocket,  and  rode  by  them  with  ;i  red  face,  and  a 
tongue  that  stuttered  so  feebly  that  I  could  scarcely  return 
their  greetings.  When  they  had  gone  by  I  pulled  out  the 
warrant  again,  having  it  in  my  mind  to  tear  it  up  without 
a  moment's  delay — to  tear  it  into  the  smallest  morsels,  and 
so  get  rid  of  a  thing  most  dangerous.  But  the  great  red 
seal  dangling  at  the  foot  of  the  parchment  caught  my  eye, 
and  I  paused  to  think.  It  was  so  red,  so  large,  so  impos- 
ing, it  seemed  a  pity  to  destroy  it.  It  must  surely  be  good 
for  something.  I  folded  up  the  warrant  again,  and  put  it 


TWO   SISTERS  OF  MERCY.  37 

away  in  my  safest  pocket.  Yes,  it  might  be  good  for  some^ 
thing. 

I  took  out  the  other  letter.  It  was  bound  with  green  rib- 
bon and  sealed  with  extreme  care,  being  directed  simply  to 
Mistress  Clarence — there  was  no  address.  But  over  Gar- 
diner's signature  on  the  wrapper  were  the  words, "These, 
on  your  peril,  very  privately." 

I  turned  it  over  and  over,  and  said  the  same  thing  about 
love  and  war,  and  even  repeated  to  myself  my  old  proverb 
about  a  sheep  and  a  iamb.  But  somehow  I  could  not  do  it. 
The  letter  was  a  woman's  letter ;  the  secret,  her  secret ;  and 
though  my  fingers  itched  as  they  hovered  about  the  seals, 
my  cheek  tingled  too.  So  at  last,  with  a  muttered,  "What 
would  Petronilla  say?"  I  put  it  away  unopened  in  the 
pocket  where  the  warrant  lay.  The  odds  were  immense 
that  Mistress  Clarence  would  never  get  it;  but  at  least  her 
secret  should  remain  hers,  my  honor  mine ! 

It  was  dark  when  I  rode,  thoroughly  jaded,  into  St. 
Albans.  I  was  splashed  with  mud  up  to  the  waist  and 
wetted  by  a  shower,  and  looked,  I  have  no  doubt,  from  the 
effect  of  my  journeying  on  foot  and  horseback,  as  disrepu- 
table a  fellow  as  might  be.  The  consciousness  too  that  I 
was  without  a  penny,  and  the  fear  lest,  careful  as  I  had 
been  to  let  no  one  outsrip  me,  the  news  of  the  riot  at  Strat- 
ford might  have  arrived,  did  not  tend  to  give  me  assurance. 
I  poked  my  head  timidly  into  the  great  room,  hoping  that  I 
might  have  it  to  myself.  To  my  disgust  it  was  full  of  peo- 
ple. Half-a-dozen  travelers  and  as  many  townsfolk  were 
sitting  round  the  fire,  talking  briskly  over  their  evening 
draught.  Yet  I  had  no  choice.  I  was  hungry,  and  the 
thing  had  to  be  done,  and  I  swaggered  in,  something  of 
the  sneak,  no  doubt,  peeping  through  my  bravado.  I  re- 
marked, as  I  took  my  seat  by  the  fire  and  set  to  drying 
myself,  that  I  was  greeted  by  a  momentary  silence,  and  that 
two  or  three  of  the  company  began  to  eye  me  suspiciously. 

There  was  one  man,  who  sat  on  the  settle  in  the  warmest 
corner  of  the  chimney,  who  seemed  in  particular  to  resent 
my  damp  neighborhood.  His  companions  treated  him  with 
so  much  reverence,  and  he  snubbed  them  so  regularly,  that 
I  wondered  who  he  was ;  and  presently,  listening  to  the 
conversation  which  went  on  round'me,  I  had  my  curiosity 


3&  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

satisfied.  He  was  no  less  a  personage  than  the  Bailiff  of  St. 
Albans,  and  his  manner  befitted  such  a  man ;  for  it  seemed 
to  indicate  that  he  thought  himself  heir  to  all  the  powers  of 
the  old  Abbots  under  whose  broad  thumb  his  father  and 
grandfather  had  groaned. 

My  conscience  pricking  me,  I  felt  some  misgiving  when  I 
saw  him,  after  staring  at  me  and  whispering  to  two  or  three 
of  his  neighbors,  beckon  the  landlord  aside.  His  big  round 
face  and  burly  figure  gave  him  a  general  likeness  to  bluff 
King  Hal  and  he  appeared  to  be  aware  of  this  himself,  and 
to  be  inclined  to  ape  the  stout  king's  ways,  which,  I  have 
heard  my  uncle  say,  were  ever  ways  heavy  for  others'  toes. 
For  a  while,  however,  seeing  my  supper  come  in,  I  forgot 
him.  The  bare-armed  girl  who  brought  it  to  me,  and  in 
whom  my  draggled  condition  seemed  to  provoke  feelings  of 
a  different  nature,  lugged  up  a  round  table  to  the  fire.  On 
this  she  laid  my  meal,  not  scrupling  to  set  aside  some  of  the 
snug  dry  townsfolk.  Then  she  set  a  chair  for  me  well  in 
the  blaze,  and  folding  her  arms  in  her  apron  stood  to  watch 
me  fall  to.  I  did  so  with  a  will,  and  with  each  mouthful  of 
beef  and  draught  of  ale,  spirit  and  strength  came  back  to 
me.  The  cits  round  me  might  sneer  and  shake  their  heads, 
and  the  travelers  smile  at  my  appetite.  In  five  minutes  I 
cared  not  a  whit!  I  could  give  them  back  joke  for  joke, 
and  laugh  with  the  best  of  them. 

Indeed,  I  had  clean  forgotten  the  Bailiff,  when  he  stalked 
back  to  his  place.  But  the  moment  our  eyes  met,  I  guessed 
there  was  trouble  afoot.  The  landlord  came  with  him  and 
stood  looking  at  me,  sending  off  the  wench  with  a  flea  in 
her  ear;  and  I  felt  under  his  eye  an  uncomfortable  con- 
sciousness that  my  purse  was  empty.  Two  or  three  late 
arrivals,  to  whom  I  suppose  Master  Bailiff  had  confided 
his  suspicions,  took  their  stand  also  in  a  half-circle  and 
scanned  me  queerly.  Altogether  it  struck  me  suddenly 
that  I  was  in  a  tight  place,  and  had  need  of  my  wits. 

"Ahem!"  said  the  Bailiff  abruptly,  taking  skillful  advan- 
tage of  a  lull  in  the  talk.  "Where  from  last,  young  man?" 
He  spoke  in  a  deep  choky  voice,  and,  if  I  was  not  mistaken, 
he  winked  one  of  his  small  eyes  in  the  direction  of  his 
friends,  as  though  to  say,  "Now  see  me  pose  him!" 

But  I  only  put  another  morsel  in  my  mouth.  For  a  mo- 
ment indeed  the  temptation  to  reply  "Towcester,"  seeing 


TWO  SISTERS  OF  MERCY.  39 

that  such  a  journey  over  a  middling  road  was  something  to 
brag  of  before  the  Highway  Law  came  in,  almost  overcame 
me.  But  in  time  I  bethought  me  of  Stephen  Gardiner's 
maxim,  "Be  slow  to  speak!"  and  I  put  another  morsel  in 
my  mouth. 

The  Bailiff's  face  grew  red,  or  rather,  redder.  "Come, 
young  man,  did  you  hear  me  speak?"  he  said  pompously. 
"Where  from  last?" 

"From  the  road,  sir,"  I  replied,  turning  to  him  as  if  I 
had  not  heard  him  before.  "And  a  very  wet  road  it  was." 

A  man  who  sat  next  me  chuckled,  being  apparently  a 
stranger  like  myself.  But  the  Bailiff  puffed  himself  into  a 
still  more  striking  likeness  to  King  Henry,  and  including 
him  in  his  scowl  shouted  at  me,  "Sirrah!  don't  bandy 
words  with  me!  Which  way  did  you  come  along  the  road,  I 
asked." 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  to  answer  saucily,  "The 
right  way!"  But  I  reflected  that  I  might  be  stopped;  and 
to  be  stopped  might  mean  to  be  hanged  at  worst,  and  some- 
thing very  unpleasant  at  best.  So  I  controlled  myself,  and 
answered — though  the  man's  arrogance  was  provoking 
enough — "I  have  come  from  Stratford,  and  I  am  going  to 
London.  Now  you  know  as  much  as  I  do." 

"Do  I?"  he  said,  with  a  sneer  and  a  wink  at  the  landlord. 

"Yes,  I  think  so,"  I  answered  patiently. 

"Well,  I  don't!"  he  retorted,  in  vulgar  triumph.  "I 
don't.  It  is  my  opinion  that  you  have  come  from  London." 

I  went  on  with  my  supper. 

"Do  you  hear?"  he  asked  pompously,  sticking  his  arms 
akimbo  and  looking  round  for  sympathy.  "You  will  have 
to  give  an  account  of  yourself,  young  man.  We  will  have 
no  penniless  rogues  and  sturdy  vagabonds  wandering  about 
St.  Albans." 

"Penniless  rogues  do  not  go  a-horseback, "  I  answered. 
But  it  was  wonderful  how  my  spirits  sank  again  under  that 
word  "penniless."  It  hit  me  hard. 

"Wait  a  bit,"  he  said,  raising  his  finger  to  command 
attention  for  his  next  question.  "What  is  your  religion, 
young  man?" 

"Oh!"  I  replied,  putting  down  my  knife  and  looking 
open  scorn  at  him,  "you  are  an  inquisitor,  are  you?"  At 
which  words  of  mine  there  was  a  kind  of  stir.  "You  would 


4°  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

burn  me  as  I  hear  they  burned  Master  Sandars  at  Coventry 
last  week,  would  you?  They  were  talking  about  it  clown 
the  road." 

"You  will  come  to  a  bad  end,  young  man!"  he  retorted 
viciously,  his  outstretched  finger  shaking  as  if  the  palsy  had 
seized  him.  For  this  time  my  taunt  had  gone  home,  and 
more  than  one  of  the  listeners  standing  on  the  outer  edge  of 
the  group,  and  so  beyond  his  ken,  had  muttered  "shame." 
More  than  one  face  had  grown  dark.  "You  will  come  to  a 
bad  end!"  he  repeated.  "If  it  be  not  here,  then  some- 
where else!  It  is  my  opinion  that  you  have  come  from 
London,  and  that  you  have  been  in  trouble.  There  is  a 
hue-and-cry  out  for  a  young  fellow  just  your  age,  and  a 
cock  of  your  hackle,- 1  judge,  who  is  wanted  for  heresy.  A 
Londoner  too.  You  do  not  leave  here  until  you  have  given 
an  account  of  yourself,  Master  Jack-a-Dandy!"  The  party 
had  all  risen  round  me,  and  some  of  the  hindmost  had  Ljot 
on  benches  to  see  me  the  better.  Among  these,  between 
two  bacon  flitches,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  serving-maid's 
face  as  she  peered  at  me,  pale  and  scared,  and  a  queer 
impulse  led  me  to  nod  to  her — a  reassuring  little  nod.  I 
found  myself  growing  cool  and  confident,  seeing  myself  so 
cornered. 

"Easy!  easy!"  I  said,  "let  a  man  finish  his  supper  and 
get  warmed  in  peace." 

"Bishop  Bonner  will  warm  you!"  cried  the  Bailiff. 

"I  dare  say — as  they  warm  people  in  Spain!"  I  sneered. 

"lie  will  be  Bishop  Burner  to  you!"  shrieked  the  Bailiff, 
almost  beside  himself  with  rage  at  being  so  bearded  by  a 
lad. 

"Take  care!"  I  retorted.  "Do  not  you  speak  evil  of 
dignitaries,  or  you  will  be  getting  into  trouble!" 

He  fairly  writhed  under  this  rejoinder. 

"Landlord!"  he  spluttered.  "I  shall  hold  you  responsi- 
ble! If  this  person  leaves  your  house,  and  is  not  forthcom- 
ing when  wanted,  you  will  suffer  for  it!" 

The  landlord  scratched  his  head,  being  a  good-natured 
fellow;  but  a  bailiff  is  a  bailiff,  especially  at  St.  Albans. 
And  I  was  muddy  and  travel-stained,  and  quick  of  my 
tongue  for  one  so  young;  which  the  middle-aged  never  like, 
though  the  old  bear  it  better.  He  hesitated. 

"Do   not  be  a  fool,    Master   Host!"  I   said.     "I  have 


TWO  SISTERS  OF  MERCY.  41 

something  here "  and  I  touched  my  pocket,  which  hap- 
pened to  be  near  my  sword-hilt — "that  will  make  you  rue  it 
if  you  interfere  with  me!" 

"Ho!  ho!"  cried  the  Bailiff,  in  haste  and  triumph.  "So 
that  is  his  tone!  We  have  a  tavern-brawler  here,  have  we! 
A  young  swashbuckler!  His  tongue  will  not  run  so  fast 
when  he  finds  his  feet  in  the  stocks.  Master  landlord,  call 
the  watch!  Call  the  watch  at  once,  I  command  you!" 

"You  will  do  so  at  your  peril!"  I  said  sternly.  Then, 
seeing  that  my  manner  had  some  effect  upon  all  save  the 
angry  official,  I  gave  way  to  the  temptation  to  drive  the 
matter  home  and  secure  my  safety  by  the  only  means  that 
seemed  possible.  It  is  an  old  story  that  one  deception  leads 
inevitably  to  another.  I  solemnly  drew  out  the  white  staff 
I  had  taken  from  the  apparitor.  "Look  here!"  I  con- 
tinued, waving  it.  "Do  you  see  this,  you  booby?  I  am 
traveling  in  the  Queen's  name,  and  on  her  service.  By 
special  commission,  too,  from  the  Chancellor!  Is  that 
plain  speaking  enough  for  you?  And  let  me  tell  you,  Mas- 
ter Bailiff,"  I  added,  fixing  my  eye  upon  him,  "that  my 
business  is  private,  and  that  my  Lord  of  Winchester  will 
not  be  best  pleased  when  he  hears  how  I  have  had  to 
declare  myself.  Do  you  think  the  Queen's  servants  go 
always  in  cloth  of  gold,  you  fool?  The  stocks  indeed!" 

I  laughed  out  loudly  and  without  effort,  for  there  never 
was  anything  so  absurd  as  the  change  in  the  Bailiff's  visage. 
His  color  fled,  his  cheeks  grew  pendulous,  his  lip  hung 
loose.  He  stared  at  me,  gasping  like  a  fish  out  of  water,  and 
seemed  unable  to  move  toe  or  finger.  The  rest  enjoyed  the 
scene,  as  people  will  enjoy  a  marvelous  sudden  stroke  of 
fortune.  It  was  as  good  as  a  stage  pageant  to  them.  They 
could  not  take  their  eyes  from  the  pocket  in  which  I  had 
replaced  my  wand,  and  continued,  long  after  I  had  returned 
to  my  meal,  to  gaze  at  me  in  respectful  silence.  The  crest- 
fallen Bailiff  presently  slipped  out,  and  I  was  left  cock  of 
the  walk,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  evening  enjoyed  the  fruits 
of  victory. 

They  proved  to  be  more  substantial  than  I  had  expected, 
for,  as  I  was  on  my  way  upstairs  to  bed,  the  landlord  pre- 
ceding me  with  a  light,  a  man  accosted  me,  and  beckoned 
me  aside  mysteriously. 

"The  Bailiff  is  very  much  annoyed,"  he  said,  speaking 


42  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

in  a  muffled  voice  behind  his  hand,  while  his  eyes  peered 
into  mine. 

"Well,  what  is  that  to  me?"  I  replied,  looking  sternly  at 
him.  I  was  tired  and  sleepy  after  my  meal.  "He  should 
not  make  such  a  fool  of  himself." 

"Tut,  tut,  tut,  tut!  You  misunderstood  me,  young  sir," 
the  man  answered,  plucking  my  sleeve  as  I  turned  away. 
"He  regrets  the  annoyance  he  has  caused  you.  A  mis- 
take, he  says,  a  pure  mistake,  and  he  hopes  you  will  have 
forgotten  it  by  morning."  Then,  with  a  skillful  hand,  which 
seemed  not  unused  to  the  task,  he  slid  two  coins  into  my 
palm.  I  looked  at  them,  for  a  moment  not  perceiving  his 
drift.  Then  I  found  they  were  two  gold  angels,  and  I 
began  to  understand.  "Ahem!"  I  said,  fingering  them 
uneasily.  "Yes.  Well,  well,  I  will  look  over  it,  I  will 
look  over  it!  Tell  him  from  me,"  I  continued,  gaining 
confidence  as  I  proceeded  with  my  new  rdle,  "that  he  shall 
hear  no  more  about  it.  He  is  zealous — perhaps  over 
zealous!" 

"That  is  it!"  muttered  the  envoy  eagerly;  "that  is  it, 
my  dear  sir!  You  see  perfectly  how  it  is.  He  is  zealous. 
Zealous  in  the  Queen's  service!" 

"To  be  sure;  and  so  I  will  report  him.  Tell  him  that 
so  I  will  report  him.  And  here,  my  good  friend,  take  one 
of  these  for  yourself,"  I  added,  magnificently  giving  him 
back  half  my  fortune — young  donkey  that  I  was.  "Drink 
to  the  Queen's  health;  and  so  good-night  to  you." 

He  went  away,  bowing  to  the  very  ground,  and,  when 
the  landlord  likewise  had  left  me,  I  was  very  merry  over 
this,  being  in  no  mood  for  weighing  words.  The  world 
seemed — to  be  sure,  the  ale  was  humming  in  my  head,  and 
I  was  in  the  landlord's  best  room — easy  enough  to  conquer, 
provided  one  possessed  a  white  staff.  The  fact  that  I  had 
no  right  to  mine  only  added — be  it  remembered  I  was 
young  and  foolish — to  my  enjoyment  of  its  power.  I  went 
to  bed  in  all  comfort  with  it  under  my  pillow,  and  slept 
soundly,  untroubled  by  any  dream  of  a  mischance.  But 
when  did  a  lie  ever  help  a  man  in  the  end? 

When  I  awoke,  which  I  seemed  to  do  on  a  sudden,  it  was 
still  dark.  I  wondered  for  a  moment  where  I  was,  and 
what  was  the  meaning  of  the  shouting  and  knocking  I 


TWO  SISTERS  OF  MERCY.  43 

heard.  Then,  discerning  the  faint  outline  of  the  window, 
I  remembered  the  place  in  which  I  had  gone  to  bed,  and 
I  sat  up  and  listened.  Some  one — nay,  several  people — 
were  drumming  and  kicking  against  the  wooden  doors  of 
the  inn-yard,  and  shouting  besides,  loud  enough  to  raise  the 
dead.  In  the  next  room  to  mine  I  caught  the  grumbling 
voices  of  persons  disturbed,  like  myself,  from  sleep.  And 
by  and  by  a  window  was  opened,  and  I  heard  the  landlord 
ask  what  was  the  matter. 

"In  the  Queen's  name!"  came  the  loud,  impatient  an- 
swer, given  in  a  voice  that  rose  above  the  ring  of  bridles 
and  the  stamping  of  iron  hoofs,  "open!  and  that  quickly, 
Master  Host.  The  watch  are  here,  and  we  must  search." 

I  waited  to  hear  no  more.  I  was  oiit  of  bed,  and  hud- 
dling on  my  clothes,  and  thrusting  my  feet  into  my  boots, 
like  one  possessed.  My  heart  was  beating  as  fast  as  if  I 
had  been  running  in  a  race,  and  my  hands  were  shaking 
with  the  shock  of  the  alarm.  The  impatient  voice  without 
was  Master  Pritchard's,  and  it  rang  with  all  the  vengeful 
passion  which  I  should  have  expected  that  gentleman, 
duped,  ducked,  and  robbed,  to  be  feeling.  There  would  be 
little  mercy  to  be  had  at  his  hands.  Moreover,  my  ears, 
grown  as  keen  for  the  moment  as  the  hunted  hare's,  distin- 
guished the  tramping  of  at  least  half-a-dozen  horses,  so  that 
it  was  clear  that  he  had  come  with  a  force  at  his  back. 
Resistance  would  be  useless.  My  sole  chance  lay  in  flight 
— if  flight  should  still  be  possible. 

Even  in  my  haste  I  did  not  forsake  the  talisman  which 
had  served  me  so  well,  but  stayed  an  instant  to  thrust  it 
into  my  pocket.  The  Cluddes  have,  I  fancy,  a  knack  of 
keeping  cool  in  emergencies,  getting,  indeed,  the  cooler  the 
greater  the  stress. 

By  this  time  the  inn  was  thoroughly  aroused.  Doors 
were  opening  and  shutting  on  all  sides  of  me,  and  questions 
were  being  shouted  in  different  tones  from  room  to  room. 
In  the  midst  of  the  hubbub  I  heard  the  landlord  come  out 
muttering,  and  go  downstairs  to  open  the  door.  Instantly 
I  unlatched  mine,  slipped  through  it  stealthily,  sneaked  a 
step  or  two  down  the  passage,  and  then  came  plump  in  the 
dark  against  some  one  who  was  moving  as  softly  as  myself. 
The  surprise  was  complete,  and  I  should  have  cried  out  at 
the  unexpected  collision,  had  not  the  unknown  laid  a  cold 


44  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

hand  on  my  mouth,  and  gently  pushed  me  back  into  my 
room. 

Here  there  was  now  a  faint  glimmer  of  dawn,  and  by  this 
I  saw  that  my  companion  was  the  serving-maid.  "Hist!" 
she  said,  speaking  under  her  breath,  "Is  it  you  they  want?" 

I  nodded. 

"I  thought  so,"  she  muttered.  "Then  you  must  get  out 
through  your  window.  You  cannot  pass  them.  They  are 
a  dozen  or  more,  and  armed.  Quick!  knot  this  about  the 
bars.  It  is  no  great  depth  to  the  bottom,  and  the  ground 
is  soft  from  the  rain." 

She  tore,  as  she  spoke,  the  coverlet  from  the  bed,  and, 
twisting  it  into  a  kind  of  rope,  helped  me  to  secure  one 
corner  of  it  about  the  window-bar.  ' 'When  you  are  down," 
she  whispered,  "keep  along  the  wall  to  the  right  until  you 
come  to  a  haystack.  Turn  to  the  left  there — you  will 
have  to  ford  the  water — and  you  will  soon  be  clear  of  the 
town.  Look  about  you  then,  and  you  will  see  a  horse- 
track,  which  leads  to  Elstree,  running  in  a  line  with  the 
London  Road,  but  a  mile  from  it  and  through  woods.  At 
Elstree  any  path  to  the  left  will  take  you  to  Barnet,  and 
not  two  miles  lost." 

"Heaven  bless  you!"  I  said,  turning  from  the  gloom, 
the  dark  sky,  and  driving  scud  without  to  peer  gratefully 
at  her.  "Heaven  bless  you  for  a  good  woman!" 

"And  God  keep  you  for  a  bonny  boy,"  she  whispered. 

I  kissed  her,  forcing  into  her  hands — a  thing  the  remem- 
brance of  which  is  very  pleasant  to  me  to  this  day — my  last 
piece  of  gold. 

A  moment  more,  and  I  stood  unhurt,  but  almost  up  to 
my  knees  in  mud,  in  an  alley  bounded  on  both  sides,  as  far 
as  I  could  see,  by  blind  walls.  Stopping  only  to  indicate 
by  a  low  whistle  that  I  was  safe,  I  turned  and  sped  away  as 
fast  as  I  could  run  in  the  direction  which  she  had  pointed 
out.  There  was  no  one  abroad,  and  in  a  shorter  time  than 
I  had  expected  I  found  myself  outside  the  town,  traveling 
over  a  kind  of  moorland  tract  bounded  in  the  distance  by 
woods. 

Here  I  picked  up  the  horse-track  easily  enough,  and 
without  stopping,  save  for  a  short  breathing  space,  hurried 
along  it,  to  gain  the  shelter  of  the  trees.  So  far  so  good! 


TWO   SISTERS  OF  MERCY.  45 

I  had  reason  to  be  thankful.  But  my  case  was  still  an 
indifferent  one.  More  than  once  in  getting  out  of  the  town 
I  had  slipped  and  fallen.  I  was  wet  through,  and  plastered 
with  dirt  owing  to  these  mishaps;  and  my  clothes  were  in  a 
woeful  plight.  For  a  time  excitement  kept  me  up,  however, 
and  I  made  good  way,  warmed  by  the  thought  that  I  had 
again  baffled  the  great  Bishop.  It  was  only  when  the  day 
had  come,  and  grown  on  to  noon,  and  I  saw  no  sign  of  any 
pursuers,  that  thought  got  the  upper  hand.  Then  I  began 
to  compare,  with  some  bitterness  of  feeling,  my  present 
condition — wet,  dirty,  and  homeless — with  that  which  I  had 
enjoyed  only  a  week  before ;  and  it  needed  all  my  courage 
to  support  me.  Skulking,  half  famished,  between  Barnet 
and  Tottenham,  often  compelled  to  crouch  in  ditches  or 
behind  walls  while  travelers  went  by,  and  liable  each  instant 
to  have  to  leave  the  highway  and  take  to  my  heels,  I  had 
leisure  to  feel;  and  I  did  feel,  more  keenly,  I  think,  that 
afternoon  than  at  any  later  time,  the  bitterness  of  fortune. 
I  cursed  Stephen  Gardiner  a  dozen  times,  and  dared  not 
let  my  thoughts  wander  to  my  father.  I  had  said  that  I 
would  build  my  house  afresh.  Well,  truly  I  was  building 
it  from  the  foundation. 

It  added  very  much  to  my  misery  that  it  rained  all  day  a 
cold,  half-frozen  rain.  The  whole  afternoon  I  spent  in 
hiding,  shivering  and  shaking  in  a  hole  under  a  ledge  near 
Tottenham ;  being  afraid  to  go  into  London  before  night- 
fall, lest  I  should  be  waited  for  at  the  gate  and  be  captured. 
Chilled  and  bedraggled  as  I  was,  and  weak  through  want  of 
food  which  I  dared  not  go  out  to  beg,  the  terrors  of  cap- 
ture got  hold  of  my  mind  and  presented  to  me  one  by  one 
every  horrible  form  of  humiliation,  the  stocks,  the  pillory, 
the  cart-tail;  so  that  even  Master  Pritchard,  could  he 
have  seen  me  and  known  my  mind,  might  have  pitied  me; 
so  that  I  loathe  to  this  day  the  hours  I  spent  in  that  foul 
hiding-place.  Between  a  man's  best  and  worse,  there  is 
little  but  a  platter  of  food. 

The  way  this  was  put  an  end  to,  I  well  remember.  An 
old  woman  came  into  the  field  where  I  lay  hid,  to  drive 
home  a  cow.  I  had  had  my  eyes  on  this  cow  for  at  least 
an  hour,  having  made  up  my  mind  to  milk  it  for  my  own 
benefit  as  soon  as  the  dusk  fell.  In  my  disappointment  at 
seeing  it  driven  off,  and  also  out  of  a  desire  to  learn  whether 


4<5  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

the  old  dame  might  not  be  going  to  milk  it  in  a  corner  of 
the  pasture,  in  which  case  I  might  still  get  an  after  taste, 
I  crawled  so  far  out  of  my  hole  that,  turning  suddenly,  she 
caught  sight  of  me.  I  expected  to  see  her  hurry  off,  but 
she  did  not.  She  took  a  long  look,  and  then  came  back 
toward  me,  making,  however,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  as  if  she 
did  not  see  me.  When  she  had  come  within  a  few  feet  of 
me,  she  looked  down  abruptly,  and  our  eyes  met.  What 
she  saw  in  mine  I  can  only  guess.  In  hers  I  read  a  divine 
pity.  "Oh,  poor  lad!"  she  murmured;  "oh,  you  poor, 
poor  lad!"  and  there  were  tears  in  her  voice. 

I  was  so  weak — it  was  almost  twenty-four  hours  since  I 
had  tasted  food,  and  I  had  come  twenty-four  miles  in  the 
time — that  at  that  I  broke  down,  and  cried  like  a  child. 

I  learned  later  that  the  old  woman  took  me  for  just  the 
same  person  for  whom  the  Bailiff  at  St.  Albans  had  mistaken 
me,  a  young  apprentice  named  Hunter,  who  had  got  into 
trouble  about  religion,  and  was  at  this  time  hiding  up  and 
down  the  country;  Bishop  Bonner  having  clapped  his 
father  into  jail  until  the  son  should  come  to  hand.  But 
her  kind  heart  knew  no  distinction  of  creeds.  She  took 
me  to  her  cottage  as  soon  as  night  fell,  and  warmed,  and 
dried,  and  fed  me.  She  did  not  dare  to  keep  me  under 
her  roof  for  longer  than  an  hour  or  two,  neither  would  I 
have  stayed  to  endanger  her.  But  she  sent  me  out  a  new 
man,  with  a  crust,  moreover,  in  my  pocket.  A  hundred 
times  between  Tottenham  and  Aldersgate  I  said  "God  bless 
her!"  And  I  say  so  now. 

So  twice  in  one  day,  and  that  the  gloomiest  day  of  my 
life,  I  was  succored  by  a  woman.  I  have  never  forgotten 
it.  I  have  tried  to  keep  it  always  in  mind;  remembering 
too  a  saying  of  my  uncle's,  that  "there  is  nothing  on  earth 
so  merciful  as  a  good  woman,  or  so  pitiless  as  a  bad  one  !  " 


CHAPTER  V. 

MISTRESS   BERTRAM. 

ING!  ding!  ding!  Aid  ye  the  poor!  Pray  for  the 
dead!  Five  o'clock  and  a  murky  morning." 

The  noise  of  the  bell,  and  the  cry  which  accompanied  it, 
roused  me  from  my  first  sleep  in  London,  and  that  with  a 
vengeance;  the  bell  being  rung  and  the  words  uttered 
within  three  feet  of  my  head.  Where  did  I  sleep,  then? 
Well,  I  had  found  a  cozy  resting-place  behind  some  boards 
which  stood  propped  against  the  wall  of  a  baker's  oven  in  a 
street  near  Moorgate.  The  wall  was  warm  and  smelt  of  new 
bread,  and  another  besides  myself  had  discovered  its  advan- 
tages. This  was  the  watchman,  who  had  slumbered  away 
most  of  his  vigil  cheek  by  jowl  with  me,  but,  morning 
approaching,  had  roused  himself,  and  before  he  was  well 
out  of  his  bed,  certainly  before  he  had  left  his  bedroom, 
had  begun — the  ungrateful  wretch — to  prove  his  watchful- 
ness by  disturbing  every  one  else. 

I  sat  up  and  rubbed  my  eyes,  grinding  my  shoulders  well 
against  the  wall  for  warmth.  I  had  no  need  to  turn  out 
yet,  but  I  began  to  think,  and  the  more  I  thought  the  harder 
I  stared  at  the  planks  six  inches  before  my  nose.  My 
thoughts  turned  upon  a  very  knotty  point;  one  that  I  had 
never  seriously  considered  before.  What  was  I  going  to  do 
next?  How  was  I  going  to  live  or  to  rear  the  new  house  of 
which  I  have  made  mention?  Hitherto  I  had  aimed  simply 
at  reaching  London.  London  had  paraded  itself  before  my 
mind — though  my  mind  should  have  known  better — not  as 
a  town  of  cold  streets  and  dreary  alleys  and  shops  open 
from  seven  to  four  with  perhaps  here  and  there  a  vacant 
place  for  an  apprentice;  but  as  a  gilded  city  of  adventure 
and  romance,  in  which  a  young  man  of  enterprise,  whether 
he  wanted  to  go  abroad  or  to  rise  at  home,  might  be  sure 
of  rinding  his  sword  weighed,  priced,  and  bought  up  on  the 
instant,  and  himself  valued  at  his  own  standard. 

But  London  reached,  the  hoarding  in  Moorgate  reached, 
and  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  reached,  somehow  these 
visions  faded  rapidly.  In  the  cold  reality  left  to  me  I  felt 
myself  astray.  If  I  would  stay  at  home,  who  was  going  t- 


48  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

employ  me?  To  whom  should  I  apply?  What  patron  had 
I?  Or  if  I  would  go  abroad,  how  was  I  to  set  about  it? 
how  find  a  vessel,  seeing  that  I  might  expect  to  be  arrested 
the  moment  I  showed  my  face  in  daylight? 

Here  all  my  experience  failed  me.  I  did  not  know  what 
to  do,  though  the  time  had  come  for  action,  and  I  must  do 
or  starve.  It  had  been  all  very  well  when  I  was  at  Coton, 
to  propose  that  I  would  go  up  to  London,  and  get  across 
the  water — such  had  been  my  dim  notion — to  the  Courte- 
nays  and  Killigrews,  who,  with  other  refugees,  Protestants 
for  the  most  part,  were  lying  on  the  French  coast,  waiting 
for  better  times.  But  now  that  I  was  in  London,  and  as 
good  as  an  outlaw  myself,  I  saw  no  means  of  going  to  them. 
I  seemed  farther  from  my  goal  than  I  had  been  in  War- 
wickshire. 

Thinking  very  blankly  over  this  I  began  to  munch  the 
piece  of  bread  which  I  owed  to  the  old  dame  at  Tottenham; 
and  had  solemnly  got  through  half  of  it,  when  the  sound  of 
rapid  footsteps — the  footsteps  of  women,  I  judged  from  the 
lightness  of  the  tread — caused  me  to  hold  my  hand  and 
listen.  Whoever  they  were — and  I  wondered,  for  it  was  still 
early,  and  I  had  heard  no  one  pass  since  the  watchman  left 
me — they  came  to  a  stand  in  front  of  my  shelter,  and  one 
one  of  them  spoke.  Her  words  made  me  start;  unmistakably 
the  voice  was  a  gentlewoman's,  such  as  I  had  not  heard  for 
almost  a  week.  And  at  this  place  and  hour,  on  the  raw 
borderland  of  day  and  night,  a  gentlewoman  was  the  last 
person  I  expected  to  light  upon.  Yet  if  the  speaker  were 
not  some  one  of  station,  Petronilla's  lessons  had  been 
thrown  away  upon  me. 

The  words  were  uttered  in  a  low  voice ;  but  the  planks 
in  front  of  me  were  thin,  and  the  speaker  was  actually  lean- 
ing against  them.  I  caught  every  accent  of  what  seemed  to 
be  the  answer  to  a  question.  "Yes,  yes!  It  is  all  right!" 
she  said,  a  covert  ring  of  impatience  in  her  tone.  "Take 
breath  a  moment.  I  do  not  see  him  now." 

"Thank  Heaven!"  muttered  another  voice.  As  Iliad 
fancied,  there  were  two  persons.  The  latter  speaker's  tone 
smacked  equally  of  breeding  with  the  former's,  but  was 
rounder  and  fuller,  and  more  masterful;  and  she  appeared 
o  be  out  of  breath.  "Then  perhaps  we  have  thrown  him 
aff  the  trail,"  she  continued,  after  a  short  pause,  in  which 


MISTRESS  BERTRAM.  49 

she  seemed  to  have  somewhat  recovered  herself.  "I  dis- 
trusted him  from  the  first,  Anne — from  the  first.  Yet,  do 
you  know,  I  never  feared  him  as  I  did  Master  Clarence; 
and  as  it  was  too  much  to  hope  that  we  should  be  rid  of 
both  at  once — they  took  good  care  of  that — why,  the  attempt 
had  to  be  made  while  he  was  at  home.  But  I  always  felt 
he  was  a  spy. " 

"Who?  Master  Clarence?"  asked  she  who  had  spoken 
first. 

"Ay,  he  certainly.  But  I  did  not  mean  him,  I  meant 
Philip." 

"Well,  I — I  said  at  first,  you  remember,  that  it  was  a 
foolhardy  enterprise,  mistress!" 

"Tut,  tut,  girl!"  quoth  the  other  tartly — this  time  the 
impatience  lay  with  her,  and  she  took  no  pains  to  conceal 
it — "we  are  not  beaten  yet.  Come,  look  about!  Cannot 
you  remember  where  we  are,  nor  which  way  the  river  should 
be?  If  the  dawn  were  come,  we  could  tell." 

"But  with  the  dawn " 

"The  streets  would  fill.  True,  and,  Master  Philip  giving 
the  alarm,  we  should  be  detected  before  we  had  gone  far. 
The  more  need,  girl,  to  lose  no  time.  I  have  my  breath 
again,  and  the  child  is  asleep.  Let  us  venture  one  way  or 
the  other,  and  Heaven  grant  it  be  the  right  one!" 

"Let  me  see,"  the  younger  woman  answered  slowly,  as 
if  in  doubt.  "Did  we  come  by  the  church?  No;  we  came 
the  other  way.  Let  us  try  this  turning,  then." 

"Why,  child,  we  came  that  way,"  was  the  decided  an- 
swer. "What  are  you  thinking  of  ?  That  would  take  us 
straight  back  into  his  arms,  the  wretch!  Come,  come! 
you  loiter,"  continued  this,  the  more  masculine  speaker, 
"and  a  minute  may  make  all  the  difference  between  a 
prison  and  freedom.  If  we  can  reach  the  Lion  Wharf  by 
seven — it  is  like  to  be  a  dark  morning  and  foggy — we  may 
still  escape  before  Master  Philip  brings  the  watch  upon  us." 

They  moved  briskly  away  as  she  spoke,  and  her  words  were 
already  growing  indistinct  from  distance,  while  I  remained 
still,  idly  seeking  the  clew  to  their  talk  and  muttering  over 
and  over  again  the  name  Clarence,  which  seemed  familiar 
to  me,  when  a  cry  of  alarm,  in  which  I  recognized  one  of 
their  voices,  cut  short  my  reverie.  I  crawled  with  all  speed 
from  my  shelter,  and  stood  up,  being  still  in  a  line  with  the 


5°  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

boards,  and  not  easily  distinguishable.  As  she  had  said,  it 
was  a  dark  morning;  but  the  roofs  of  the  houses — now  high, 
now  low — could  be  plainly  discerned  against  a  gray,  drift- 
ing sky  wherein  the  first  signs  of  dawn  were  visible;  and 
the  blank  outlines  of  the  streets,  which  met  at  this  point, 
could  be  seen.  Six  or  seven  yards  from  me,  in  the  middle 
of  the  roadway,  stood  three  dusky  figures,  of  whom  I  judged 
the  nearer,  from  their  attitudes,  to  be  the  two  women.  The 
farthest  seemed  to  be  a  man. 

I  was  astonished  to  see  that  he  was  standing  cap  in  hand; 
nay,  I  was  disgusted  as  well,  for  I  had  crept  out  hot-fisted, 
expecting  to  be  called  upon  to  defend  the  women.  But, 
despite  the  cry  I  had  heard,  they  were  talking  to  him  quietly 
enough,  as  far  as  I  could  hear.  And  in  a  minute  or  so  I. 
saw  the  taller  woman  give  him  something. 

He  took  it  with  a  low  bow,  and  appeared  almost  to  sweep 
the  dirt  with  his  bonnet.  She  waved  her  hand  in  dismissal, 
and  he  stood  back  still  uncovered.  And — hey,  presto!  the 
women  tripped  swiftly  away. 

By  this  time  my  curiosity  was  intensely  excited,  but  for 
a  moment  I  thought  it  was  doomed  to  disappointment.  I 
thought  that  it  was  all  over.  It  was  not,  by  any  means. 
The  man  stood  looking  after  them  until  they  reached  the 
corner,  and  the  moment  they  had  passed  it,  he  followed. 
His  stealthy  manner  of  going,  and  his  fashion  of  peering 
after  them,  was  enough  for  me.  I  guessed  at  once  that  he 
was  dogging  them,  following  them  unknown  to  them  and 
against  their  will;  and  with  considerable  elation  I  started 
after  him,  using  the  same  precautions.  What  Avas  sauce 
for  the  geese  was  sauce  for  the  gander !  So  we  went,  two — 
one — one,  slipping  after  one  another  through  half  a  dozen 
dark  streets,  tending  generally  southward. 

Following  him  in  this  way  I  seldom  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  women.  The  man  kept  at  a  considerable  distance 
behind  them,  and  I  had  my  attention  fixed  on  him.  But 
once  or  twice,  when,  turning  a  corner,  I  all  but  trod  on  his 
heels,  I  saw  them;  and  presently  an  odd  point  about  them 
struck  me.  There  was  a  white  kerchief  or  something 
attached  apparently  to  the  back  of  the  one's  cloak,  which 
considerably  assisted  my  stealthy  friend  to  keep  them  in 
view.  It  puzzled  me.  Was  it  a  signal  to  him?  Was  he 
really  all  the  time  acting  in  concert  with  them ;  and  was  I 


MISTRESS  BERTRAM.  51 

throwing  away  my  pains?  Or  was  the  white  object  which 
so  betrayed  them  merely  the  result  of  carelessness,  and  the 
lack  of  foresight  of  women  grappling  with  a  condition  of 
things  to  which  they  were  unaccustomed?  Of  course  I 
could  not  decide  this,  the  more  as,  at  that  distance,  I  failed 
to  distinguish  what  the  white  something  was,  or  even  which 
of  the  two  wore  it. 

Presently  I  got  a  clew  to  our  position,  for  we  crossed 
Cheapside  close  to  Paul's  Cross,  which  my  childish  memo- 
ries of  the  town  enabled  me  to  recognize,  even  by  that  light. 
Here  my  friend  looked  up  and  down,  and  hung  a  minute  on 
his  heel  before  he  followed  the  women,  as  if  expecting  or 
looking  for  some  one.  It  might  be  that  he  was  trying  to 
make  certain  that  the  watch  were  not  in  sight.  They  were 
not,  at  any  rate.  Probably  they  had  gone  home  to  bed, 
for  the  morning  was  growing.  And,  after  a  momentary 
hesitation,  he  plunged  into  the  narrow  street  down  which 
the  women  had  flitted. 

He  had  only  gone  a  few  yards  when  I  heard  him  cry 
out.  The  next  instant,  almost  running  against  him  myself, 
I  saw  what  had  happened.  The  women  had  craftily  lain  in 
wait  for  him  in  the  little  court  into  which  the  street  ran  and 
had  caught  him  as  neatly  as  could  be.  When  I  came  upon 
them  the  taller  woman  was  standing  at  bay  with  a  passion 
that  was  almost  fury  in  her  pose  and  gesture.  Her  face, 
from  which  the  hood  of  a  coarse  cloak  had  fallen  back,  was 
pale  with  anger;  her  gray  eyes  flashed,  her  teeth  glimmered. 
Seeing  her  thus,  and  seeing  the  burden  she  carried  under 
her  cloak — which  instinct  told  me  was  her  child — I  thought 
of  a  tigress  brought  to  bay. 

"You  lying  knave!"  she  hissed.      "You  Judas!" 

The  man  recoiled  a  couple  of  paces,  and  in  recoiling 
nearly  touched  me. 

"What  would  you?"  she  continued.  "What  do  you 
want?  What  would  you  do?  You  have  been  paid  to  go. 
Go,  and  leave  us!" 

"I  dare  not,"  he  muttered,  keeping  away  from  her  as  if 
he  dreaded  a  blow.  She  looked  a  woman  who  could  deal  a 
blow,  a  woman  who  could  both  love  and  hate  fiercely  and 
openly — as  proud  and  frank  and  haughty  a  lady  as  I  had 
ever  seen  in  my  life.  "I  dare  not,"  he  muttered  sullenly; 
"I  have  my  orders." 


52  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  with  scorn.  "You  have  your  orders, 
have  you!  The  murder  is  out.  But  from  whom,  sirrah? 
Whose  orders  are  to  supersede  mine?  I  would  King  Harry 
were  alive,  and  I  would  have  you  whipped  to  Tyburn. 
Speak,  rogue;  who  bade  you  follow  me  ?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

She  looked  about  her  wildly,  passionately,  and  I  saw  that 
she  was  at  her  wits'  end  what  to  do,  or  how  to  escape  him. 
But  she  was  a  woman.  When  she  next  spoke  there  was  a 
marvelous  change  in  her.  Her  face  had  grown  soft,  her 
voice  low.  "Philip,"  she  said  gently,  "the  purse  was  light. 
I  will  give  you  more.  I  will  give  you  treble  the  amount 
within  a  few  weeks,  and  I  will  thank  you  on  my  knees,  and 
my  husband  shall  be  such  a  friend  to  you  as  you  have  never 
dreamed  of,  if  you  will  only  go  home  and  be  silent.  Only 
that — or,  better  still,  walk  the  streets  an  hour,  and  then 
report  that  you  lost  sight  of  us.  Think,  man,  think!"  she 
cried  with  energy — "the  times  may  change.  A  little  more, 
and  Wyatt  had  been  master  of  London  last  year.  Now  the 
people  are  fuller  of  discontent  than  ever,  and  these  burnings 
and  torturings,  these  Spaniards  in  the  streets — England 
will  not  endure  them  long.  The  times  will  change.  Let 
us  go,  and  you  will  have  a  friend — when  most  you  need  one." 

He  shook  his  head  sullenly.  "I  dare  not  do  it,"  he  said. 
And  somehow  I  got  the  idea  that  he  was  telling  the  truth, 
and  that  it  was  not  the  man's  stubborn  nature  only  that 
withstood  the  bribe  and  the  plea.  He  spoke  as  if  he  were 
repeating  a  lesson  and  the  master  were  present. 

When  she  saw  that  she  could  not  move  him,  the  anger, 
which  I  think  came  more  naturally  to  her,broke  out  afresh. 
"You  will  not,  you  hound!"  she  cried.  "Will  neither 
threats  nor  promises  move  you?" 

"Neither,"  he  answered  doggedly;   "I  have  my  orders." 

So  far,  I  had  remained  a  quiet  listener,  standing  in  the 
mouth  of  the  lane  which  opened  upon  the  court  where  they 
were.  The  women  had  taken  no  notice  of  me;  either 
because  they  did  not  see  me,  or  because,  seeing  me,  they 
thought  that  I  was  a  hanger-on  of  the  man  before  them. 
And  he,  having  his  back  to  me,  and  his  eyes  on  them,  could 
not  see  me.  It  was  a  surprise  to  him — a  very  great  surprise, 
I  think — when  I  took  three  steps  forward,  and  gripped  him 
by  the  scruff  of  his  neck. 


MISTRESS  BERTRAM.  53 

"You  have  your  orders,  have  you?"  I  muttered  in  his 
ear,  as  I  shook  him  to  and  fro,  while  the  taller  woman 
started  back  and  the  younger  uttered  a  cry  of  alarm  at  my 
sudden  appearance.  "Well,  you  will  not  obey  them.  Do 
you  hear?  Your  employer  may  go  hang!  You  will  do  just 
what  these  ladies  please  to  ask  of  you." 

He  struggled  an  instant;  but  he  was  an  undersized  man, 
and  he  could  not  loosen  the  hold  which  I  had  secured  at  my 
leisure.  Then  I  noticed  his  hand  going  to  his  girdle  in  a 
suspicious  way.  "Stop  that!"  I  said,  flashing  before  his 
eyes  a  short,  broad  blade,  which  had  cut  many  a  deer's 
throat  in  Old  Arden  Forest.  "You  had  better  keep  quiet, 
or  it  will  be  the  worse  for  you!  Now,  mistress,"  I  con- 
tinued, "you  can  dispose  of  this  little  man  as  you  please." 

"Who  are  you?"  she  said,  after  a  pause;  during  which 
she  had  stared  at  me  in  open  astonishment.  No  doubt  I 
was  a  wild-looking  figure. 

"A  friend,"  I  replied.  "Or  one  who  would  be  such. 
I  saw  this  fellow  follow  you,  and  I  followed  him.  For  the 
last  five  minutes  I  have  been  listening  to  your  talk.  He 
was  not  amenable  to  reason  then,  but  I  think  he  will  be 
now.  What  shall  I  do  with  him?" 

She  smiled  faintly,  but  did  not  answer  at  once,  the  cool- 
ness and  resolution  with  which  she  had  faced  him  before 
failing  her  now,  possibly  in  sheer  astonishment,  or  because 
my  appearance  at  her  side,  by  removing  the  strain,  sapped 
the  strength.  "I  do  not  know,"  she  said  at  length,  in  a 
vague,  puzzled  tone. 

"Well,"  I  answered,  "you  are  going  to  the  Lion 
Wharf,  and " 

"Oh,  you  fool!"  she  screamed  out  loud.  "Oh,  you 
fool!"  she  repeated  bitterly.  "Now  you  have  told  him 
all." 

I  stood  confounded.  My  cheeks  burned  with  shame, 
and  her  look  of  contempt  cut  me  like  a  knife.  That  the 
reproach  was  deserved  I  knew  at  once,  for  the  man  in  my 
grasp  gave  a  start,  which  proved  that  the  information  was 
not  lost  upon  him.  "Who  told  you?"  the  woman  went  on, 
clutching  the  child  jealously  to  her  breast,  as  though  she 
saw  herself  menaced  afresh.  "Who  told  you  about  the 
Lion  Wharf?" 

"Never  mind,"  I  answered  gloomily.     "I  have  made  a 


54  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

mistake,  but  it  is  easy  to  remedy  it."  And  I  took  out  my 
knife  again.  "Do  you  go  on  and  leave  us." 

I  hardly  know  whether  I  meant  my  threat  or  no.  But 
my  prisoner  had  no  doubts.  He  shrieked  out — a  wild  cry 
of  fear  which  rang  round  the  empty  court — and  by  a  rapid 
blo\v,  despair  giving  him  courage,  he  dashed  the  hunting- 
knife  from  my  hand.  This  done  he  first  flung  himself  on 
me,  then  tried  by  a  sudden  jerk  to  free  himself.  In  a  mo- 
ment we  were  down  on  the  stones,  and  tumbling  over  one 
another  in  the  dirt,  while  he  struggled  to  reach  his  knife, 
which  was  still  in  his  girdle,  and  I  strove  to  prevent  him. 
The  fight  was  sharp,  but  it  lasted  barely  a  minute.  When 
the  first  effort  of  his  despair  was  spent,  I  came  uppermost, 
and  he  was  but  a  child  in  my  hands.  Presently,  with  my 
knee  on  his  chest,  I  looked  up.  The  women  were  still  there, 
the  younger  clinging  to  the  other. 

"Go!  go!"  I  cried  impatiently.  Each  second  I  ex- 
pected the  court  to  be  invaded,  for  the  man  had  screamed 
more  than  once. 

But  they  hesitated.  I  had  been  forced  to  hurt  him  a 
little,  and  he  was  moaning  piteously.  "Who  are  you?"  the 
elder  woman  asked — she  who  had  spoken  all  through. 

"Nay,  never  mind  that!"  I  answered.  "Do  you  go! 
Go,  while  you  can.  You  know  the  way  to  the  Wharf." 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "But  I  cannot  go  and  leave  him 
at  your  mercy.  Remember  he  is  a  man,  and  has " 

"He  is  a  treacherous  scoundrel,"  I  answered,  giving  his 
throat  a  squeeze.  "But  he  shall  have  one  more  chance. 
Listen,  sirrah!"  I  continued  to  the  man,  "and  stop  that 
noise  or  I  will  knock  out  your  teeth  with  my  dagger-hilt. 
Listen  and  be  silent.  I  shall  go  with  these  ladies,  and  I 
promise  you  this:  If  they  are  stopped  or  hindered  on  their 
way,  or  if  evil  happen  to  them  at  that  wharf,  whose  name 
you  had  better  forget,  it  will  be  the  worse  for  you.  Do  you 
hear?  You  will  suffer  for  it,  though  there  be  a  dozen 
guards  about  you!  Mind  you,"  I  added,  "I  have  nothing 
to  lose  myself,  for  I  am  desperate  already." 

He  vowed — the  poor  craven — with  his  stuttering  tongue, 
that  he  would  be  true,  and  vowed  it  again  and  again.  But 
I  saw  that  his  eyes  did  not  meet  mine.  They  glanced 
instead  at  the  knife-blade,  and  I  knew,  even  while  I  pre- 
tended to  trust  him,  that  he  would  betray  us.  My  real  hope 


MISTRESS  BERTRAM.  55 

lay  in  his  fears,  and  in  this,  that  as  the  fugitives  knew  the 
way  to  the  wharf,  and  it  could  not  now  be  far  distant,  we 
might  reach  it,  and  go  on  board  some  vessel — I  had  gath- 
ered they  were  flying  the  country — before  this  wretch  could 
recover  himself  and  get  together  a  force  to  stop  us.  That 
was  my  real  hope,  and  in  that  hope  only  I  left  him. 

We  went  as  fast  as  the  women  could  walk.  I  did  not 
trouble  them  with  questions ;  indeed,  I  had  myself  no  more 
leisure  than  enabled  me  to  notice  their  general  appearance, 
which  was  that  of  comfortable  tradesmen's  womenfolk. 
Their  cloaks  and  hoods  were  plainly  fashioned,  and  of 
coarse  stuff,  their  shoes  were  thick,  and  no  jewel  or  scrap 
of  lace,  peeping  out,  betrayed  them.  Yet  there  was  some- 
thing in  their  carriage  which  could  not  be  hidden,  some- 
thing which,  to  my  eye,  told  tales ;  so  that  minute  by  min- 
ute I  became  more  sure  that  this  was  really  an  adventure 
worth  pursuing,  and  that  London  had  kept  a  reward  in 
store  for  me  besides  its  cold  stones  and  inhospitable  streets. 

The  city  was  beginning  to  rouse  itself.  As  we  flitted 
through  the  lanes  and  alleys  which  lie  between  Cheapside 
and  the  river,  we  met  many  people,  chiefly  of  the  lower 
classes,  on  their  way  to  work.  Yet  in  spite  of  this,  we  had 
no  need  to  fear  observation,  for,  though  the  morning  was 
fully  come,  with  the  light  had  arrived  such  a  thick,  choking, 
yellow  fog  as  I,  being  for  the  most  part  country-bred,  had 
never  experienced.  It  was  so  dense  and  blinding  that  we 
had  a  difficulty  in  keeping  together,  and  even  hand  in  hand 
could  scarcely  see  one  another.  In  my  wonder  how  my 
companions  found  their  way,  I  presently  failed  to  notice 
their  condition,  and  only  remarked  the  distress  and  ex- 
haustion which  one  of  them  was  suffering,  when  she  began, 
notwithstanding  all  her  efforts,  to  lag  behind.  Then  I 
sprang  forward,  blaming  myself  much.  "Forgive  me,"  I 
said.  "You  are  tired,  and  no  wonder.  Let  me  carry  the 
child,  mistress." 

Exhausted  as  she  was,  she  drew  away  from  me  jealously. 

"No,"  she  panted.  "We  are  nearly  there.  I  am  better 
now."  And  she  strained  the  child  closer  to  her,  as  though 
she  feared  I  might  take  it  from  her  by  force. 

"Well,  if  you  will  not  trust  me,"  I  answered,  "let  your 
friend  carry  it  for  a  time.  I  can  see  you  are  tired  out." 

Through  the  mist  she  bent  forward,  and  peered  into  my 


5<>  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

face,  her  eyes  scarcely  a  foot  from  mine.  The  scrutiny 
seemed  to  satisfy  her.  She  drew  a  long  breath  and  held 
out  her  burden.  "No,"  she  said ;  "you  shall  take  him.  I 
will  trust  you." 

I  took  the  little  wrapped-up  thing  as  gently  as  I  could. 
"You  shall  not  repent  it,  if  I  can  help  it,  Mistress " 

"Bertram,"  she  said. 

"Mistress  Bertram,"  I  repeated.  "Now  let  us  get  on 
and  lose  no  time." 

A  walk  of  a  hundred  yards  or  so  brought  us  clear  of  the 
houses,  and  revealed  before  us,  in  place  of  all  else,  a  yellow 
curtain  of  fog.  Below  this,  at  our  feet,  yet  apparently  a 
long  way  from  us,  was  a  strange,  pale  line  of  shimmering 
light,  which  they  told  me  was  the  water.  At  first  I  could 
hardly  believe  this.  But,  pausing  a  moment  while  my  com- 
panions whispered  together,  dull  creakings  and  groanings 
and  uncouth  shouts  and  cries,  and  at  last  the  regular  beat 
of  oars,  came  to  my  ears  out  of  the  bank  of  vapor,  and  con- 
vinced me  that  we  really  had  the  river  before  us. 

Mistress  Bertram  turned  to  me  abruptly.  "Listen,"  she 
said,  "and  decide  for  yourself,  my  friend.  We  are  close 
to  the  wharf  now,  and  in  a  few  minutes  shall  know  our  fate. 
It  is  possible  that  we  may  be  intercepted  at  this  point,  and 
if  that  happen,  it  will  be  bad  for  me  and  worse  for  any  one 
aiding  me.  You  have  done  us  gallant  service,  but  you  are 
young;  and  I  am  loath  to  drag  you  into  perils  which  do  not 
belong  to  you.  Take  my  advice,  then,  and  leave  us  now. 
I  would  I  could  reward  you,"  she  added  hastily,  "but  that 
knave  has  my  purse." 

I  put  the  child  gently  back  into  her  arms.  "Good-by," 
she  said,  with  more  feeling.  "We  thank  you.  Some  day  I 
may  return  to  England,  and  have  ample  power " 

"Not  so  fast,"  I  answered  stiffly.  "Did  you  think  it 
possible,  mistress,  that  I  would  desert  you  now?  I  gave 
you  back  the  child  only  because  it  might  hamper  me,  and 
will  be  safer  with  you.  Come,  let  us  on  at  once  to  the 
wharf." 

"You  mean  it?"  she  said. 

"Of  a  certainty!"  I  answered,  settling  my  cap  on  my 
head  with  perhaps  a  boyish  touch  of  the  braggart. 

At  any  rate,  she  did  not  take  me  at  once  at  my  word ; 
and  her  thought  for  me  touched  me  the  more  because  I 


MISTRESS  BERTRAM.  57 

judged  her — I  know  not  exactly  why — to  be  a  woman  not 
over  prone  to  think  of  others.  "Do  not  be  reckless,"  she 
said  slowly,  her  eyes  intently  fixed  on  mine.  "I  should  be 
sorry  to  bring  evil  upon  you.  You  are  but  a  boy." 

"And  yet,"  I  answered,  smiling,  "there  is  as  good  as  a 
price  upon  my  head  already.  I  should  be  reckless  if  I 
stayed  here.  If  you  will  take  me  with  you,  let  us  go.  We 
have  loitered  too  long  already." 

She  turned  then,  asking  no  questions;  but  she  looked  at 
me  from  time  to  time  in  a  puzzled  way,  as  though  she 
thought  she  ought  to  know  me — as  though  I  reminded  her 
of  some  one.  Paying  little  heed  to  this  then,  I  hurried  her 
and  her  companion  down  to  the  water,  traversing  a  stretch 
of  foreshore  strewn  with  piles  of  wood  and  stacks  of  barrels 
and  old  rotting  boats,  between  which  the  mud  lay  deep. 
Fortunately  it  was  high  tide,  and  so  we  had  not  far  to  go. 
In  a  minute  or  two  I  distinguished  the  hull  of  a  ship  loom- 
ing large  through  the  fog;  and  a  few  more  steps  placed  us 
safely  on  a  floating  raft,  on  the  far  side  of  which  the  vessel 
lay  moored. 

There  was  only  one  man  to  be  seen  lounging  on  the  raft, 
and  the  neighborhood  was  quiet.  My  spirits  rose  as  I 
looked  round.  "Is  this  the  WkelpV*  the  tall  lady  asked. 
I  had  not  heard  the  other  open  her  mouth  since  the  en- 
counter in  the  court. 

"Yes,  it  is  the  Whelp,  madam,"  the  man  answered, 
saluting  her  and  speaking  formally,  and  with  a  foreign 
accent.  "Yon  are  the  lady  who  is  expected?" 

"I  am,"  she  answered,  with  authority.  "Will  you  tell 
the  captain  that  I  desire  to  sail  immediately,  without  a  mo- 
ent's  delay?  Do  you  understand?" 

"Well,  the  tide  is  going  out,"  quoth  the  sailor,  dubi- 
ously, looking  steadily  into  the  fog,  which  hid  the  river. 
"It  has  just  turned,  it  is  true.  But  as  to  sailing " 

She  cut  him  short.  "Go,  go!  man.  Tell  your  captain 
what  I  say.  And  let  down  a  ladder  for  us  to  get  on  board. " 

He  caught  a  rope  which  hung  over  the  side,  and,  swing- 
ing himself  up,  disappeared.  We  stood  below,  listening  to 
the  weird  sounds  which  came  off  the  water,  the  creaking 
and  flapping  of  masts  and  canvas,  the  whir  of  wings  and 
shrieks  of  unseen  gulls,  the  distant  hail  of  boatmen.  A  bell 
in  the  city  solemnly  tolled  eight.  The  younger  woman 


58  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

shivered.  The  elder's  foot  tapped  impatiently  on  the 
planks.  Shut  in  by  the  yellow  walls  of  fog,  I  experienced 
a  strange  sense  of  solitude;  it  was  as  if  we  three  were  alone 
in  the  world — we  three  who  had  come  together  so  strangely. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MASTER     CLARENCE. 

WE  had  stood  thus  for  a  few  moments  when  a  harsh 
voice, hailing  us  from  above, put  an  end  to  our  several 
thoughts  and  forebodings.  We  looked  up  and  I  saw  half  a 
dozen  night-capped  heads  thrust  over  the  bulwarks.  A 
rope  ladder  came  hurtling  down  at  our  feet,  and  a  man, 
nimbly  descending,  held  it  tight  at  the  bottom.  "Now, 
madame!"  he  said  briskly.  They  all,  I  noticed,  had  the 
same  foreign  accent,  yet  all  spoke  English;  a  singularity  I 
did  not  understand,  until  I  learned  later  that  the  boat  was 
the  Lions  Whelp,  trading  between  London  and  Calais,  and 
manned  from  the  latter  place. 

Mistress  Bertram  ascended  quickly  and  steadily,  holding 
the  baby  in  her  arms.  The  other  made  some  demur,  lin- 
gering at  the  foot  of  the  ladder  and  looking  up  as  if  afraid, 
until  her  companion  chid  her  sharply.  Then  she  too  went 
up,  but  as  she  passed  me — I  was  holding  one  side  of  the 
ladder  steady — she  shot  at  me  from  under  her  hood  a  look 
which  disturbed  me  strangely. 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  seen  her  face,  and  it  was  such 
a  face  as  a  man  rarely  forgets.  Not  because  of  its  beauty; 
rather  because  it  was  a  speaking  face,  a  strange  and  expres- 
sive one,  which  the  dark  waving  hair,  swelling  in  thick  clus- 
ters upon  either  temple,  seemed  to  accentuate.  The  features 
were  regular,  but,  the  full  red  lips  excepted,  rather  thin 
than  shapely.  The  nose,  too,  was  prominent.  But  the 
eyes!  The  eyes  seemed  to  glorify  the  dark  brilliant  thinness 
of  the  face,  and  to  print  it  upon  the  memory.  They  were 
dark  flashing  eyes,  and  their  smile  seemed  to  me  perpetually 
to  challenge,  to  allure  and  repulse,  and  even  to  goad. 
Sometimes  they  were  gay,  more  rarely  sad,  sometimes  soft, 
and  again  hard  as  steel.  They  changed  in  a  moment  as 
one  or  another  approached  her.  But  always  at  their  gay- 


60  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

est,  there  was  a  suspicion  of  weariness  and  fatigue  in  their 
depths.  Or  so  I  thought  later. 

Something  of  this  flashed  through  my  mind  as  I  followed 
her  up  the  side.  But  once  on  board  I  glanced  round,  for- 
getting her  in  the  novelty  of  my  position.  The  Whelp  was 
decked  fore  and  aft  only,  the  blackness  of  the  hold  gaping 
amidships,  spanned  by  a  narrow  gangway,  which  served  to 
connect  the  two  decks.  We  found  ourselves  in  the  fore- 
part, amid  coils  of  rope  and  windlasses  and  water-casks; 
surrounded  by  half  a  dozen  wild-looking  sailors  wearing 
blue  knitted  frocks  and  carrying  sheath-knives  at  their 
girdles. 

The  foremost  and  biggest  of  these  seemed  to  be  the  cap- 
tain, although,  so  far  as  outward  appearances  went,  the 
only  difference  between  him  and  his  crew  lay  in  a  marlin- 
spike  which  he  wore  slung  to  a  thong  beside  his  knife. 
VVhen  I  reached  the  deck  he  was  telling  a  long  story  to 
Mistress  Bertram,  and  telling  it  very  slowly.  But  -the  drift 
of  it  L  soon  gathered.  While  the  fog  lasted  he  could  not 
put  to  sea. 

"Nonsense!"  cried  my  masterful  companion,  chafing  at 
his  slowness  of  speech.  "Why  not?  Would  it  be  dan- 
gerous?" 

"Well,  madam,  it  would  be  dangerous,"  he  answered, 
more  slowly  than  ever.  "Yes,  it  would  be  dangerous.  And 
to  put  to  sea  in  a  fog?  That  is  not  seamanship.  And  your 
baggage  has  not  arrived." 

"Never  mind  my  baggage!"  she  answered  imperiously. 
"I  have  made  other  arrangements  for  it.  Two  or  three 
things  I  know  came  on  board  last  night.  I  want  to  start — 
to  start  at  once,  do  you  hear?" 

The  captain  shook  his  head,  and  said  sluggishly  that  it 
was  impossible.  Spitting  on  the  deck  he  ground  his  heel 
leisurely  round  in  a  knothole.  "Impossible,"  he  repeated; 
"it  would  not  be  seamanship  to  start  in  a  fog.  When  the 
fog  lifts  we  will  go.  'Twill  be  all  the  same  to-morrow. 
We  shall  lie  at  Leigh  to-night,  whether  we  go  now  or  go 
when  the  fog  lifts." 

"At  Leigh?" 

"That  is  it,  madam." 

"  And  when  will  you  go  from  Leigh  ?  "  she  cried  indig- 
nantly. 


MASTER   CLARENCE.  6 1 

"Daybreak  to-morrow,"  he  answered.  "You  leave  it  to 
me,  mistress,"  he  continued,  in  a  tone  of  rough  patronage, 
"and  you  will  see  your  good  man  before  you  expect  it." 

"But,  man!"  she  exclaimed,  trembling  with  impotent 
rage.  "Did  not  Master  Bertram  engage  you  to  bring  me 
across  whenever  I  might  be  ready  ?  Ay,  and  pay  you 
handsomely  for  it?  Did  he  not,  sirrah?" 

"To  be  sure,  to  be  sure!"  replied  the  giant  unmoved. 
"Using  seamanship,  and  not  going  to  sea  in  a  fog,  if  it 
please  you." 

"It  does  not  please  me!"  she  retorted.  "And  why  stay 
at  Leigh?" 

He  looked  up  at  the  rigging,  then  down  at  the  deck.  He 
set  his  heel  in  the  knothole,  and  ground  it  round  again. 
Then  he  looked  at  his  questioner  with  a  broad  smile. 
"Well,  mistress,  for  a  very  good  reason.  It  is  there  your 
good  man  is  waiting  for  you.  Only,"  added  this  careful 
keeper  of  a  secret,  "he  bade  me  not  tell  any  one." 

She  uttered  a  low  cry,  which  might  have  been  an  echo  of 
her  baby's  cooing,  and  convulsively  clasped  the  child  more 
tightly  to  her.  "He  is  at  Leigh!"  she  murmured,  flushing 
and  trembling,  another  woman  altogether.  Even  her  voice 
was  wonderfully  changed.  "He  is  really  at  Leigh,  you 
say?" 

"To  be  sure!"  replied  the  captain,  with  a  portentous 
wink  and  a  mysterious  roll  of  the  head.  "He  is  there  safe 
enough!  Safe  enough,  you  may  bet  your  handsome  face 
to  a  rushlight.  And  we  will  be  there  to-night." 

She  started  up  with  a  wild  gesture.  For  a  moment  she 
had  sat  down  on  a  cask  standing  beside  her,  and  forgotten 
our  peril,  and  the  probability  that  we  might  never  see  Leigh 
at  all.  Now,  I  have  said,  she  started  up.  "No,  no!"  she 
cried,  struggling  for  breath  and  utterance.  "Oh,  no!  no! 
Let  us  go  at  once.  We  must  start  at  once!"  Her  voice 
was  hysterical  in  its  sudden  anxiety  and  terror,  as  the  con- 
sciousness of  our  position  rolled  back  upon  her.  "Cap- 
tain! listen,  listen!"  she  pleaded.  "Let  us  start  now,  and 
my  husband  will  give  you  double.  I  will  promise  you 
double  whatever  he  said  if  you  will  chance  the  fog." 

I  think  all  who  heard  her  were  moved,  save  the  captain 
only.  He  rubbed  his  head  and  grinned.  Slow  and  heavy, 
he  saw  nothing  in  her  prayer  save  the  freak  of  a  woman 


6a  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

wild  to  get  to  her  man.  He  did  not  weigh  her  promise  at  a 
groat;  she  was  but  a  woman.  And  being  a  foreigner,  he 
did  not  perceive  a  certain  air  of  breeding  which  might  have 
influenced  a  native.  He  was  one  of  those  men  against 
whose  stupidity  Father  Carey  used  to  say  the  gods  fight  in 
vain.  When  he  answered  good-naturedly,  "No,  no,  mis- 
tress, it  is  impossible.  It  would  not  be  seamanship,'  I  felt 
that  we  might  as  well  try  to  stop  the  ebbing  tide  as  move 
him  from  his  position. 

The  feeling  was  a  maddening  one.  The  special  peril 
which  menaced  my  companions  I  did  not  know ;  but  I  knew 
they  feared  pursuit,  and  I  had  every  reason  to  fear  it  for 
myself.  Yet  at  any  moment,  out  of  the  fog  which  encircled 
us  so  closely  that  we  could  barely  see  the  raft  below — and 
the  shore  not  at  all — might  come  the  tramp  of  hurrying  feet 
and  the  stern  hail  of  the  law.  It  was  maddening  to  think 
of  this,  and  to  know  that  we  had  only  to  cast  off  a  rope  or 
two  in  order  to  escape;  and  to  know  also  that  we  were 
absolutely  helpless. 

I  expected  that  Mistress  Bertram,  brave  as  she  had  shown 
herself,  would  burst  into  a  passion  of  rage  or  tears.  But 
apparently  she  had  one  hope  left.  She  looked  at  me. 

I  tried  to  think — to  think  hard.  Alas,  I  seemed  only 
able  to  listen.  An  hour  had  gone  by  since  we  parted  from 
that  rascal  in  the  court,  and  we  might  expect  him  to  appear 
at  any  moment,  vengeful  and  exultant,  with  a  posse  at  his 
back.  Yet  I  tried  hard  to  think;  and  the  fog  presently  sug- 
gested a  possible  course.  "Look  here,"  I  said  suddenly, 
speaking  for  the  first  time,  "  if  you  do  not  start  until  the  fog 
lifts,  captain,  we  may  as  well  breakfast  ashore,  and  return 
presently." 

"That  is  as  you  please,"  he  answered  indifferently. 

"What  do  you  think?"  I  said,  turning  to  my  companions 
with  as  much  carelessness  as  I  could  command.  "Had  we 
not  better  do  that?" 

Mistress  Bertram  did  not  understand,  but  in  her  despair 
she  obeyed  the  motion  of  my  hand  mechanically,  and  walked 
to  the  side.  The  younger  woman  followed  more  slowly,  so 
that  I  had  to  speak  to  her  with  some  curtness,  bidding  her 
make  haste;  for  I  was  in  a  fever  until  we  were  clear  of  the 
Whelp  and  the  Lion  Wharf.  It  had  struck  me  that,  if  the 
ship  were  not  to  leave  at  once,  we  were  nowhere  in  so  much 


MASTER   CLARENCE.  63 

danger  as  on  board.  At  large  in  the  fog  we  might  escape 
detection  for  a  time.  Our  pursuers  might  as  well  look  for  a 
needle  in  a  haystack  as  seek  us  through  it  when  once  we 
were  clear  of  the  wharf.  And  this  was  not  the  end  of  my 
idea.  But  for  the  present  it  was  enough.  Therefore  I 
took  up  Mistress  Anne  very  short.  "Come!"  I  said,  "be 
quick!  Let  me  help  you." 

She  obeyed,  and  I  was  ashamed  of  my  impatience  when 
at  the  foot  of  the  ladder  she  thanked  me  prettily.  It  was 
almost  with  good  cheer  in  my  voice  and  a  rebound  of  spirits 
that  I  explained,  as  I  hurried  my  companions  across  the 
raft,  what  my  plan  was. 

The  moment  we  were  ashore  I  felt  safer.  The  fog  swal- 
lowed us  up  quick,  as  the  Bible  says.  The  very  hull  of  the 
ship  vanished  from  sight  before  we  had  gone  half  a  dozen 
paces.  I  had  never  seen  a  London  fog  before,  and  to  me  it 
seemed  portentous  and  providential;  a  marvel  as  great  as 
the  crimson  hail  which  fell  in  the  London  gardens  to  mark 
her  Majesty's  accession. 

Yet  after  all,  without  my  happy  thought,  the  fog  would 
have  availed  us  little.  We  had  scarcely  gone  a  score  of 
yards  before  the  cautious  tread  of  several  people  hastening 
down  the  strand  toward  the  wharf  struck  my  ear.  They 
were  proceeding  in  silence,  and  we  might  not  have  noticed 
their  approach  if  the  foremost  had  not  by  chance  tripped 
and  fallen;  whereupon  one  laughed  and  another  swore. 
With  a  warning  hand  I  grasped  my  companions'  arms,  and 
hurried  them  forward  some  paces  until  I  felt  sure  that  our 
figures  could  not  be  seen  through  the  mist.  Then  I  halted, 
and  we  stood  listening,  gazing  into  one  another's  strained 
eyes,  while  the  steps  came  nearer  and  nearer,  crossed  our 
track  and  then  with  a  noisy  rush  thundered  on  the  wooden 
raft.  My  ear  caught  the  jingle  of  harness  and  the  clank  of 
weapons. 

"It  is  the  watch,"  I  muttered.  "Come,  and  make  no 
noise.  What  I  want  is  a  little  this  way.  I  fancy  I  saw  it 
as  we  passed  down  to  the  wharf." 

They  turned  with  me,  but  we  had  not  taken  many  steps 
before  Mistress  Anne,  who  was  walking  on  my  left  side, 
stumbled  over  something.  She  tried  to  save  herself,  but 
failed  and  fell  heavily,  uttering  as  she  did  so  a  loud  cry.  I 
sprang  to  her  assistance,  and  even  before  I  raised  her  I  laid 


64  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

my  hand  lightly  on  her  mouth.  "Hush!"  I  said  softly, 
"for  safety's  sake,  make  no  noise.  What  is  the  mat- 
ter?" 

4  'Oh  ! ' '  she  moaned,  making  no  effort  to  rise,  '  'my  ankle ! 
my  ankle!  I  am  sure  I  have  broken  it." 

I  muttered  my  dismay,  while  Mistress  Bertram,  stooping 
anxiously,  examined  the  injured  limb.  "Can  you  stand?" 
she  asked. 

But  it  was  no  time  for  questioning,  and  I  put  her  aside. 
The  troop  which  had  passed  were  within  easy  hearing,  and 
if  there  should  be  one  among  them  familiar  with  the  girl's 
voice,  we  might  be  pounced  upon,  fog  or  no  fog.  I  felt 
that  it  was  no  time  for  ceremony,  and  picked  Mistress  Anne 
up  in  my  arms,  whispering  to  the  elder  woman:  "Go  on 
ahead!  I  think  I  see  the  boat.  It  is  straight  before  you." 

Luckily  I  was  right,  it  was  the  boat;  and  so  far  well. 
But  at  the  moment  I  spoke  I  heard  a  sudden  outcry  behind 
us,  and  knew  the  hunt  was  up.  I  plunged  forward  with  my 
burden,  recklessly  and  blindly,  through  mud  and  over  ob- 
stacles. The  wherry  for  which  I  was  making  was  moored 
in  the  water  a  few  feet  from  the  edge.  I  had  remarked  it 
idly  and  without  purpose  as  we  came  down  to  the  wharf,  and 
had  even  noticed  that  the  oars  were  lying  in  it.  Now,  if 
we  could  reach  it  and  start  down  the  river  for  Leigh,  we 
might  by  possibility  gain  that  place,  and  meet  Mistress  Ber- 
tram's husband. 

At  any  late,  nothing  in  the  world  seemed  so  desirable  to 
me  at  the  moment  as  the  shelter  of  that  boat.  I  plunged 
through  the  mud,  and  waded  desperately  through  the  water 
to  it,  Mistress  Bertram  scarce  a  whit  behind  me.  I  reached 
it,  but  reached  it  only  as  the  foremost  pursuer  caught  sight 
of  us.  I  heard  his  shout  of  triumph,  and  somehow  I 
bundled  my  burden  into  the  boat — I  remember  that  she 
clung  about  my  neck  in  fear,  and  I  had  to  loosen  her  hands 
roughly.  But  I  did  loosen  them — in  time.  With  one 
stroke  of  my  hunting-knife,  I  severed  the  rope,  and  pushing 
off  the  boat  with  all  my  strength,  sprang  into  it  as  it  floated 
away — and  was  in  time.  But  one  second's  delay  would 
have  undone  us.  Two  men  were  already  in  the  water  up  to 
their  knees,  and  their  very  breath  was  hot  on  my  face  as  we 
swung  out  into  the  stream. 

Fortunately,  I  had  had  experience  of  boats  on  the  Avon, 


MASTER  CLARENCE.  65 

at  Bidford  and  Stratford,  and  could  pull  a  good  oar.  For 
a  moment  indeed  the  wherry  rolled  and  dipped  as  I 
snatched  up  the  sculls ;  but;  I  quickly  got  her  in  hand,  and, 
bending  to  my  work,  sent  her  spinning  through  the  mist, 
every  stroke  I  pulled  increasing  the  distance  between  us  and 
our  now  unseen  foes.  Happily  we  were  below  London 
Bridge,  and  had  not  that  dangerous  passage  to  make.  The 
river,  too,  was  nearly  clear  of  craft,  and  though  once  and 
again  in  the  Pool  a  huge  hulk  loomed  suddenly  across  our 
bows,  and  then  faded  behind  us  into  the  mist  like  some 
monstrous  phantom,  and  so  told  of  a  danger  narrowly 
escaped,  I  thought  it  best  to  run  all  risks,  and  go  ahead  as 
long  as  the  tide  should  ebb. 

It  was  strange  how  suddenly  we  had  passed  from  storm 
into  calm.  Mistress  Anne  had  bound  her  ankle  with  a 
handkerchief,  and  bravely  made  light  of  the  hurt;  and  now 
the  two  women  sat  crouching  in  the  stern  watching  me, 
their  heads  together,  their  faces  pale.  The  mist  had  closed 
round  us,  and  we  were  alone  again,  gliding  over  the  bosom 
of  the  great  river  that  runs  down  to  the  sea.  I  was  oddly 
struck  by  the  strange  current  of  life  which  for  a  week  had 
tossed  me  from  one  adventure  to  another,  only  to  bring  me 
into  contact  at  length  with  these  two,  and  sweep  me  into 
the  unknown  whirlpool  of  their  fortunes. 

Who  were  they?  A  merchant's  wife  and  her  sister  flying 
from  Bishop  Bonner's  inquisition?  I  thought  it  likely. 
Their  cloaks  and  hoods  indeed,  and  all  that  I  could  see  of 
their  clothes,  fell  below  such  a  condition ;  but  probably 
they  were  worn  as  a  disguise.  Their  speech  rose  as  much 
above  it,  but  I  knew  that  of  late  many  merchant's  wives  had 
become  scholars,  and  might  pass  in  noblemen's  houses; 
even  as  in  those  days  when  London  waxed  fat,  and  set  up 
and  threw  down  governments,  every  alderman  had  come  to 
ride  in  mail. 

No  doubt  the  women,  watching  me  in  anxious  silence,  were 
as  curious  about  me.  I  still  bore  the  stains  of  country 
travel.  I  was  unwashen,  unkempt,  my  doublet  was  torn, 
the  cloak  I  had  cast  at  my  feet  was  the  very  wreck  of  a 
cloak.  Yet  I  read  no  distrust  in  their  looks.  The  elder's 
brave  eyes  seemed  ever  thanking  me.  I  never  saw  her  lips 
move  silently  that  they  did  not  shape  "Well  done!"  And 
though  I  caught  Mistress  Anne  scanning  me  once  or  twice 


66  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

with  an  expression  I  could  ill  interpret,  a  smile  took  its 
place  the  moment  her  gaze  met  mine. 

We  had  passed,  but  were  still  in  sight  of,  Greenwich 
Palace — as  they  told  me — when  the  mist  rose  suddenly  like 
a  curtain  rolled  away,  and  the  cold,  bright  February  sun, 
shining  out,  disclosed  the  sparkling  river  with  the  green 
hills  rising  on  our  right  hand.  Here  and  there  on  its  sur- 
face a  small  boat  such  as  our  own  moved  to  and  fro,  and  in 
the  distant  Pool  from  which  we  had  come  rose  a  little  forest 
of  masts.  I  hung  on  the  oars  a  moment,  and  my  eyes  were 
drawn  to  a  two-masted  vessel  which,  nearly  half  a  mile 
below  us,  was  drifting  down,  gently  heeling  over  with  the 
current  as  the  crew  got  up  the  sails.  "I  wonder  whither 
she  is  bound,"  I  said  thoughtfully,  "and  whether  they 
would  take  us  on  board  by  any  chance." 

Mistress  Bertram  shook  her  head.  "I  have  no  money," 
she  answered  sadly.  "I  fear  we  must  go  on  to  Leigh,  if  it 
be  any  way  possible.  You  are  tired,  and  no  wonder.  But 
what  is  it?"  with  a  sudden  change  of  voice.  "What  is  the 
matter?" 

I  had  flashed  out  the  oars  with  a  single  touch,  and  begun 
to  pull  as  fast  as  I  could  down  the  stream.  No  doubt  my 
face,  too,  proclaimed  my  discovery  and  awoke  her  fears. 
"Look  behind!"  I  muttered  between  my  set  teeth. 

She  turned,  and  on  the  instant  uttered  a  low  cry.  A 
wherry  like  our  own,  but  even  lighter — in  my  first  glance  up 
the  river  I  had  not  noticed  it — had  stolen  nearer  to  us,  and 
yet  nearer,  and  now  throwing  aside  disguise  was  in  hot  pur- 
suit of  us.  There  were  three  men  on  board,  two  rowing  and 
one  steering.  When  they  saw  that  we  had  discovered  them 
they  hailed  us  in  a  loud  voice,  and  I  heard  the  steersman's 
feet  rattle  on  the  boards,  as  he  cried  to  his  men  to  give  way, 
and  stamped  in  very  eagerness.  My  only  reply  was  to  take 
a  longer  stroke,  and,  pulling  hard,  to  sweep  away  from  them. 

But  presently  my  first  strength  died  a\vay,  and  the  work 
began  to  tell  upon  me,  and  little  by  little  they  overhauled 
us.  Not  that  I  gave  up  at  once  for  that.  They  were  still 
some  sixty  yards  behind,  and  for  a  few  minutes  at  any  rate 
I  might  put  off  capture.  In  that  time  something  might 
happen.  At  the  worst  they  were  only  three  to  one,  and 
their  boat  looked  light  and  cranky  and  easy  to  upset. 

So  I  pulled  on,  savagely  straining  at  the  oars.     But  my 


MASTER  CLARENCE.  67 

chest  heaved  and  my  arms  ached  more  and  more  with  each 
stroke.  The  banks  slid  by  us ;  we  turned  one  bend,  then 
another,  though  I  saw  nothing  of  them.  I  saw  only  the 
pursuing  boat,  on  which  my  eyes  were  fixed,  heard  only  the 
measured  rattle  of  the  oars  in  the  rowlocks.  A  minute,  two 
minutes,  three  minutes  passed.  They  had  not  gained  on 
us,  but  the  water  was  beginning  to  waver  before  my  eyes, 
their  boat  seemed  floating  in  the  air,  there  was  a  pulsation 
in  my  ears  louder  than  that  of  the  oars,  I  struggled  and  yet 
I  flagged.  My  knees  trembled.  Their  boat  shot  nearer 
now,  nearer  and  nearer,  so  that  I  could  read  the  smile  of 
triumph  on  the  steersman's  dark  face  and  hear  his  cry  of 
exultation.  Nearer!  and  then  with  a  cry  I  dropped  the 
oars. 

"Quick!"  I  panted  to  my  companions.  "Change  places 
with  me!  So!"  Trembling  and  out  of  breath  as  I  was,  I 
crawled  between  the  women  and  gained  the  stern  sheets  of 
the  boat.  As  I  passed  Mistress  Bertram  she  clutched  my 
arm.  Her  eyes,  as  they  met  mine,  flashed  fire,  her  lips  were 
white.  "The  man  steering!"  she  hissed  between  her  teeth. 
"Leave  the  others.  He  is  Clarence,  and  I  fear  him!" 

I  nodded;  but  still,  as  the  hostile  boat  bore  swiftly  down 
upon  us,  I  cast  a  glance  round  to  see  if  there  were  any  help 
at  hand.  I  saw  no  sign  of  any.  I  saw  only  the  pale  blue 
sky  overhead,  and  the  stream  flowing  swiftly  under  the  boat. 
I  drew  my  sword.  The  case  was  one  rather  for  despair 
than  courage.  The  women  were  in  my  charge,  and  if  I  did 
not  acquit  myself  like  a  man  now,  when  should  I  do  so? 
Bah!  it  would  soon  be  over. 

There  was  an  instant's  confusion  in  the  other  boat,  as  the 
crew  ceased  rowing,  and,  seeing  my  attitude  and  not  liking 
j.t,  changed  their  seats.  To  my  joy  the  man,  who  had  hith- 
erto been  steering,  flung  a  curse  at  the  others  and  came  for- 
ward to  bear  the  brunt  of  the  encounter.  He  was  a  tall, 
sinewy  man,  past  middle  age,  with  a  clean-shaven  face,  a 
dark  complexion,  and  cruel  eyes.  So  he  was  Master  Clar- 
ence !  Well,  he  had  the  air  of  a  swordsman  and  a  soldier. 
I  trembled  for  the  women. 

"Surrender,  you  fool!"  he  cried  to  me  harshly.  "In 
the  Queen's  name — do  you  hear?  What  do  you  in  this 
company?" 

I  answered  nothing,  for  I  was  out  of  breath.     But  softly, 


68  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

my  eyes  on  his,  I  drew  out  with  my  left  hand  my  hunting- 
knife.  If  I  could  beat  aside  his  sword,  I  would  spring  upon 
him  and  drive  the  knife  home  with  that  hand.  So,  standing 
erect  in  bow  and  stern  we  faced  one  another,  the  man  and 
the  boy,  the  flush  of  rage  and  exertion  on  my  cheek,  a  dark 
shade  on  his.  And  silently  the  boats  drew  together. 

Thought  is  quick,  quicker  than  anything  else  in  the  world 
I  suppose,  for  in  some  drawn-out  second  before  the  boats 
came  together  I  had  time  to  wonder  where  I  had  seen  his 
face  before,  and  to  rack  my  memory.  I  knew  no  Master 
Clarence,  yet  I  had  seen  this  man  somewhere.  Another 
second,  and  away  with  thought!  He  was  crouching  for  a 
spring.  I  drew  back  a  little,  then  lunged — lunged  with 
heart  and  hand.  Our  swords  crossed  and  whistled — just 
crossed — and  even  as  I  saw  his  eyes  gleam  behind  his  point, 
the  shock  of  the  two  boats  coming  together  flung  us  both 
backward  and  apart.  A  moment  we  reeled,  staggering  and 
throwing  out  wild  hands.  I  strove  hard  to  recover  myself, 
nay,  I  almost  did  so;  then  I  caught  my  foot  in  Mistress 
Anne's  cloak,  which  she  had  left  in  her  place,  and  fell 
heavily  back  into  the  boat. 

I  was  up  in  a  moment — on  my  knees  at  least — and  unhurt. 
But  another  was  before  me.  As  I  stooped  half-risen,  I  saw 
one  moment  a  dark  shadow  above  me,  and  the  next  a  sheet 
of  flame  shone  before  my  eyes,  and  a  tremendous  shock 
swept  all  away.  I  fell  senseless  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat, 
knowing  nothing  of  what  had  happened  to  me. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

ON    BOARD    THE    "FRAMLINGHAM." 

I  AM  told  by  people  who  have  been  seasick  that  the 
sound  of  the  waves  beating  against  the  hull  comes  in 
time  to  be  an  intolerable  torment.  But  bad  as  this  maybe, 
it  can  be  nothing  in  comparison  with  the  pains  I  suffered 
from  the  same  cause,  as  I  recovered  my  senses.  My  brain 
seemed  to  be  a  cavern  into  which  each  moment,  with  a 
rhythmical  regularity  which  added  the  pangs  of  anticipation 
to  those  of  reality,  the  sea  rushed,  booming  and  thundering, 
jarring  every  nerve  and  straining  the  walls  to  bursting,  and 
making  each  moment  of  consciousness  a  vivid  agony.  And 
this  lasted  long;  how  long  I  cannot  say.  But  it  had  sub- 
sided somewhat  when  I  first  opened  my  eyes,  and  dully, 
not  daring  to  move  my  head,  looked  up. 

I  was  lying  on  my  back.  About  a  foot  from  my  eyes 
were  rough  beams  of  wood  disclosed  by  a  smoky  yellow 
light,  which  flickered  on  the  knotholes  and  rude  joists. 
The  light  swayed  to  and  fro  regularly;  and  this  adding  to 
my  pain,  I  closed  my  eyes  with  a  moan.  Then  some  one 
came  to  me,  and  I  heard  voices  which  sounded  a  long  way 
off,  and  promptly  fell  again  into  a  deep  sleep,  troubled  still, 
but  less  painfully,  by  the  same  rhythmical  shocks,  the  same 
dull  crashings  in  my  brain. 

When  I  awoke  again  I  had  sense  to  know  what  caused 
this,  and  where  I  was — in  a  berth  on  board  ship.  The 
noise  which  had  so  troubled  me  was  that  of  the  waves  beat- 
ing against  her  forefoot.  The  beams  so  close  to  my  face 
formed  the  deck,  the  smoky  light  came  from  the  ship's  lan- 
tern swinging  on  a  hook.  I  tried  to  turn.  Some  one  came 
again,  and  with  gentle  hands  arranged  my  pillow  and  pres- 
ently began  to  feed  me  with  a  spoon.  When  I  had  swal- 
lowed a  few  mouthfuls  I  gained  strength  to  turn. 

Who  was  this  feeding  me?.    The  light  was  at  her  back 


7°  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

and  dazzled  me.  For  a  short  while  I  took  her  for  Petro- 
nilla,  my  thoughts  going  back  at  one  bound  to  Coton,  and 
skipping  all  that  had  happened  since  I  left  home.  But  as  I 
grew  stronger  I  grew  clearer,  and  recalling  bit  by  bit  what 
had  happened  in  the  boat,  I  recognized  Mistress  Anne.  I 
tried  to  murmur  thanks,  but  she  laid  a  cool  finger  on  my 
lips  and  shook  her  head,  smiling  on  me.  "You  must  not 
talk,"  she  murmured,  "you  are  getting  well.  Now  go  to 
sleep  again." 

I  shut  my  eyes  at  once  as  a  child  might.  Another  interval 
of  unconsciousness,  painless  this  time,  followed,  and  again  I 
awoke.  I  was  lying  on  my  side  now,  and  without  moving 
could  see  the  whole  of  the  tiny  cabin.  The  lantern  still 
hung  and  smoked.  But  the  light  was  steady  now,  and  I 
heard  no  splashing  without,  nor  the  dull  groaning  and  creak- 
ing of  the  timbers  within.  There  reigned  a  quiet  which 
seemed  bliss  to  me;  and  I  lay  wrapped  in  it,  my  thoughts 
growing  clearer  and  clearer  each  moment. 

On  a  sea-chest  at  the  farther  end  of  the  cabin  were  sitting 
two  people  engaged  in  talk.  The  one,  a  woman,  I  recog- 
nized immediately.  The  gray  eyes  full  of  command,  the 
handsome  features,  the  reddish-brown  hair  and  gracious 
figure  left  me  in  no  doubt,  even  for  a  moment,  that  I  looked 
on  Mistress  Bertram.  The  sharer  of  her  seat  was  a  tall, 
thin  man  with  a  thoughtful  face  and  dreamy,  rather  melan- 
choly eyes.  One  of  her  hands  rested  on  his  knee,  and  her 
lips  as  she  talked  were  close  to  his  ear.  A  little  aside,  sit- 
ting on  the  lowest  step  of  the  ladder  which  led  to  the  deck, 
her  head  leaning  against  the  timbers,  and  a  cloak  about  her, 
was  Mistress  Anne. 

I  tried  to  speak,  and  after  more  than  one  effort  found  my 
voice.  "Where  am  I?"  I  whispered.  My  head  ached 
sadly,  and  I  fancied,  though  I  was  too  languid  to  raise  my 
hand  to  it,  that  it  was  bandaged.  My  mind  was  so  far 
clear  that  I  remembered  Master  Clarence  and  his  pursuit 
and  the  fight  in  the  boats,  and  knew  that  we  ought  to  be  on 
our  way  to  prison.  Who,  then,  was  the  mild,  comely  gentle- 
man whose  length  of  limb  made  the  cabin  seem  smaller  than 
it  was?  Not  a  jailer,  surely?  Yet  who  else? 

I  could  compass  no  more  than  a  whisper,  but  faint  as  my 
voice  was  they  all  heard  me,  and  looked  up.  "Anne!"  the 
elder  lady  cried  sharply,  seeming  by  her  tone  to  direct  the 


ON  BOARD    THE   "  FRAMLINGHAM,"  Jl 

other  to  attend  to  me.  Yet  was  she  herself  the  first  to  rise, 
and  come  and  lay  her  hand  on  my  brow.  "Ah!  the  fever 
is  gone!"  she  said,  speaking  apparently  to  the  gentleman, 
who  kept  his  seat.  "His  head  is  quite  cool.  He  will  do 
well  now,  I  am  sure.  Do  you  know  me?"  she  continued, 
leaning  over  me. 

I  looked  up  into  her  eyes,  and  read  only  kindness. 
"Yes,"  I  muttered.  But  the  effort  of  looking  was  so  pain- 
ful that  I  closed  my  eyes  again  with  a  sigh.  Nevertheless, 
my  memory  of  the  events  which  had  gone  before  my  illness 
grew  clearer,  and  I  fumbled  feebly  for  something  which 
should  have  been  at  my  side.  "Where  is — where  is  my 
sword?"  I  made  shift  to  whisper. 

She  laughed.  "Show  it  to  him,  Anne,"  she  said;  "what 
a  never-die  it  is!  There,  Master  Knight  Errant,  we  did 
not  forget  to  bring  it  off  the  field,  you  see!" 

"But  how,"  I  murmured,  "how  did  you  escape  ?"  I  saw 
that  there  was  no  question  of  a  prison.  Her  laugh  was 
gay,  her  voice  full  of  content. 

"That  is  a  long  story,"  she  answered  kindly.  "Are  you 
well  enough  to  hear  it?  You  think  you  are?  Then  take 
some  of  this  first.  You  remember  that  knave  Philip  strik- 
ing you  on  the  head  with  an  oar  as  you  got  up?  No? 
Well,  it  was  a  cowardly  stroke,  but  it  stood  him  in  little 
stead,  for  we  had  drifted,  in  the  excitement  of  the  race, 
under  the  stern  of  the  ship  which  you  remember  seeing  a 
little  before.  There  were  English  seamen  on  her;  and 
when  they  saw  three  men  in  the  act  of  boarding  two  de- 
fenseless women,  they  stepped  in,  and  threatened  to  send 
Clarence  and  his  crew  to  the  bottom  unless  they  sheered 
off." 

"Ha!"  I  murmured.     "Good!" 

"And  so  we  escaped.  I  prayed  the  captain  to  take  us  on 
board  his  ship,  the  Framlingham,  and  he  did  so.  More, 
putting  into  Leigh  on  his  way  to  the  Nore,  he  took  off  my 
husband.  There  he  stands,  and  when  you  are  better  he 
shall  thank  you." 

"Nay,  he  will  thank  you  now,"  said  the  tall  man,  rising 
and  stepping  to  my  berth  with  his  head  bent.  He  could 
not  stand  upright,  so  low  was  the  deck.  "But  for  you,"  he 
continued,  his  earnestness  showing  in  his  voice  and  eyes — 
the  latter  were  almost  too  tender  for  a  man's — "my  wife 


72  THE   STOKY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

would  be  now  lying  in  prison,  her  life  in  jeopardy,  and  her 
property  as  good  as  gone.  She  has  told  me  how  bravely 
you  rescued  her  from  that  cur  in  Cheapside,  and  how  your 
presence  of  mind  baffled  the  watch  at  the  riverside.  It  is 
well,  young  gentleman.  It  is  very  well.  But  these  things 
call  for  other  returns  than  words.  When  it  lies  in  her  power 
my  wife  will  make  them ;  if  not  to-day,  to-morrow,  and  if 
not  to-morrow,  the  day  after." 

I  was  very  weak,  and  his  words  brought  the  tears  to  my 
eyes.  "She  has  saved  my  life  already,"  I  murmured. 

"You  foolish  boy!"  she  cried,  smiling  down  on  me,  her 
hand  on  her  husband's  shoulder.  "You  got  your  head 
broken  in  my  defense.  It  was  a  great  thing,  was  it  not,  that 
I  did  not  leave  you  to  die  in  the  boat?  There,  make  haste 
and  get  well.  You  have  talked  enough  now.  Go  to  sleep, 
or  we  shall  have  the  fever  back  again." 

"One  thing  first,"  I  pleaded.  "Tell  me  whither  we  are 
going." 

"In  a  few  hours  we  shall  be  at  Dort  in  Holland,"  she 
answered.  "But  be  content.  We  will  take  care  of  you, 
and  send  you  back  if  you  will,  or  you  shall  still  come  with 
us;  as  you  please.  Be  content.  Go  to  sleep  now  and  get 
strong.  Presently,  perhaps,  we  shall  have  need  of  your 
help  again." 

They  went  and  sat  down  then  on  their  former  seat  and 
talked  in  whispers,  while  Mistress  Anne  shook  up  my  pil- 
lows, and  laid  a  fresh  cool  bandage  on  my  head.  1  was 
too  weak  to  speak  my  gratitude,  but  I  tried  to  look  it  and 
so  fell  asleep  again,  her  hand  in  mine,  and  the  wondrous 
smile  of  those  lustrous  eyes  the  last  impression  of  which  I 
was  conscious. 

A  long  dreamless  sleep  followed.  When  I  awoke  once 
more  the  light  still  hung  steady,  but  the  peacefulness  of 
night  was  gone.  We  lay  in  the  midst  of  turmoil.  The 
scampering  of  feet  over  the  deck  above  me,  the  creaking  of 
the  windlass,  the  bumping  and  clattering  of  barrels  hoisted 
in  or  hoisted  out,  the  harsh  sound  of  voices  raised  in  a 
foreign  tongue  and  in  queer  keys,  sufficed  as  I  grew  wide- 
awake to  tell  me  we  were  in  port. 

But  the  cabin  was  empty,  and  I  lay  for  some  time  gazing 
at  its  dreary  interior,  and  wondering  what  was  to  become  of 
me.  Presently  an  uneasy  fear  crept  into  my  mind.  What 


ON  BOARD    THE   " FRAMLINGHAM."  73 

if  my  companions  had  deserted  me?  Alone,  ill,  and  pen- 
niless in  a  foreign  land,  what  should  I  do?  This  fear  in  my 
sick  state  was  so  terrible  that  I  struggled  to  get  up,  and 
with  reeling  brain  and  nerveless  hands  did  get  out  of  my 
berth.  But  this  feat  accomplished  I  found  that  I  could  not 
stand.  Everything  swam  before  my  eyes.  I  could  not 
take  a  single  step,  but  remained,  clinging  helplessly  to  the 
edge  of  my  berth,  despair  at  my  heart.  I  tried  to  call  out, 
but  my  voice  rose  little  above  a  whisper,  and  the  banging  and 
shrieking,  the  babel  without  went  on  endlessly.  Oh,  it  was 
cruel!  cruel!  They  had  left  me! 

I  think  my  senses  were  leaving  me  too,  when  I  felt  an 
arm  about  my  waist,  and  found  Mistress  Anne  by  my  side 
guiding  me  to  the  chest.  I  sat  down  on  it,  the  certainty  of 
my  helplessness  and  the  sudden  relief  of  her  presence  bring- 
ing the  tears  to  my  eyes.  She  fanned  me,  and  gave-  me 
some  restorative,  chiding  me  the  while  for  getting  out  of 
my  berth. 

"I  thought  that  you  had  gone  and  left  me,"  I  muttered. 
I  was  as  weak  as  a  child. 

She  said  cheerily:  "Did  you  leave  us  when  we  were  in 
trouble?  Of  course  you  did  not.  There,  take  some  more 
of  this.  After  all,  it  is  well  you  are  up,  for  in  a  short  time 
we  must  move  you  to  the  other  boat." 

"The  other  boat?" 

"Yes,  we  are  at  Dort,  you  know.  And  we  are  going  by 
the  Waal,  a  branch  of  the  Rhine,  to  Arnheim.  But  the 
boat  is  here,  close  to  this  one,  and,  with  help,  I  think  you 
will  be  able  to  walk  to  it." 

"I  am  sure  I  shall  if  you  will  give  me  your  arm,"  I 
answered  gratefully. 

"But  you  will  not  think  again,"  she  replied,  "that  we 
have  deserted  you?" 

"No,"  I  said.      "I  will  trust  you  always." 

I  wondered  why  a  shadow  crossed  her  face  at  that.  But 
I  had  no  time  to  do  more  than  wonder,  for  Master  Bertram, 
coming  down,  brought  our  sitting  to  an  end.  She  bustled 
about  to  wrap  me  up,  and  somehow,  partly  walking,  partly 
carried,  I  was  got  on  deck.  There  I  sat  down  on  a  bale  to 
recover  myself,  and  felt  at  once  much  the  better  for  the 
fresh,  keen  air,  the  clear  sky  and  wintry  sunshine  which 
welcomed  me  to  a  foreign  land. 

On  the  outer  side  of  the  vessel  stretched  a  wide  expanse 


74  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

of  turbid  water,  five  or  six  times  as  wide  as  the  Thames  at 
London,  and  foam-flecked  here  and  there  by  the  up-running 
tide.  On  the  other  side  was  a  wide  and  spacious  quay, 
paved  neatly  with  round  stones,  and  piled  here  and  there 
with  merchandise;  but  possessing,  by  virtue  of  the  lines  of 
leafless  elms  which  bordered  it,  a  quaint  air  of  rusticity  in 
the  midst  of  bustle.  The  sober  bearing  of  the  sturdy  lands- 
men, going  quietly  about  their  business,  accorded  well  with 
the  substantial  comfort  of  the  rows  of  tall,  steep-roofed 
houses  I  saw  beyond  the  quay,  and  seemed  only  made 
more  homely  by  the  occasional  swagger  and  uncouth  cry  of 
some  half-barbarous  seaman,  wandering  aimlessly  about. 
Above  the  town  rose  the  heavy  square  tower  of  a  church, 
a  notable  landmark  where  all  around,  land  and  water,  lay 
so  low,  where  the  horizon  seemed  so  far,  and  the  sky  so 
wide  and  breezy. 

"So  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  come  with  us,"  said 
Master  Bertram,  returning  to  my  side — he  had  left  me  to 
make  some  arrangements.  "You  understand  that  if  you 
would  prefer  to  go  home  I  can  secure  your  tendance  here 
by  good,  kindly  people,  and  provide  for  your  passage  back 
when  you  feel  strong  enough  to  cross.  You  understand 
that?  And  that  the  choice  is  entirely  your  own?  So  which 
will  you  do?" 

I  changed  color  and  felt  I  did.  I  shrunk,  as  being  well 
and  strong  I  should  not  have  shrunk,  from  losing  sight  of 
those  three  faces  which  I  had  known  for  so  short  a  time,  yet 
which  alone  stood  between  myself  and  loneliness.  "I 
would  rather  come  with  you,"  I  stammered.  "But  I  shall 
be  a  great  burden  to  you  now,  I  fear." 

"It  is  not  that,"  he  replied,  with  hearty  assurance  in 
his  voice.  "A  week's  rest  and  quiet  will  restore  you  to 
strength,  and  then  the  burden  will  be  on  the  other  shoulder. 
It  is  for  your  own  sake  I  give  you  the  choice,  because  our 
future  is  for  the  time  uncertain.  Very  uncertain,"  he  re- 
peated, his  brow  clouding  over;  "and  to  become  our  com- 
panion may  expose  you  to  fresh  dangers.  We  are  refugees 
from  England ;  that  you  probably  guess.  Our  plan  was  to 
go  to  France,  where  are  many  of  our  friends,  and  where  we 
could  live  safely  until  better  times.  You  know  how  that 
plan  was  frustrated.  Here  the  Spaniards  are  masters — 
Prince  Philip's  people;  and  if  we  are  recognized,  we  shall 


ON  BOARD    THE   "  FRAMLINGHAM"  75 

be  arrested  and  sent  back  to  England.  Still,  my  wife  and  I 
must  make  the  best  of  it.  The  hue  and  cry  will  not  follow 
us  for  some  days,  and  there  is  still  a  degree  of  independence 
in  the  cities  of  Holland  which  may,  since  I  have  friends 
here,  protect  us  for  a  time.  Now  you  know  something 
of  our  position,  my  friend.  You  can  make  your  choice 
with  your  eyes  open.  Either  way  we  shall  not  forget 
you." 

"I  will  go  on  with  you,  if  you  please,"  I  answered  at 
once.  "I,  too,  cannot  go  home."  And  as  I  said  this, 
Mistress  Bertram  also  came  up,  and  I  took  her  hand  in 
mine — which  looked,  by  the  way,  so  strangely  thin  I  scarcely 
recognized  it — and  kissed  it.  "I  will  come  with  you, 
madam,  if  you  will  let  me,"  I  said. 

"Good!"  she  replied,  her  eyes  sparkling.  "I  said  you 
would !  I  do  not  mind  telling  you  now  that  I  am  glad  of 
it.  And  if  ever  we  return  to  England,  as  God  grant  we 
may  and  soon,  you  shall  not  regret  your  decision.  Shall 
he,  Richard?" 

"If  you  say  he  shall  not,  my  dear,"  he  responded,  smil- 
ing at  her  enthusiasm,  "I  think  I  may  answer  for  it  he  will 
not." 

I  was  struck  then,  as  I  had  been  before,  by  a  certain  air 
of  deference  which  the  husband  assumed  toward  the  wife. 
It  did  not  surprise  me,  for  her  bearing  and  manner,  as  well 
as  such  of  her  actions  as  I  had  seen,  stamped  her  as  singu- 
larly self-reliant  and  independent  for  a  woman ;  and  to  these 
qualities,  as  much  as  to  the  rather  dreamy  character  of  the 
husband,  I  was  content  to  set  down  the  peculiarity.  I 
should  add  that  a  rare  and  pretty  tenderness  constantly 
displayed  on  her  part  toward  him  robbed  it  of  any 
semblance  of  unseemliness. 

They  saw  that  the  exertion  of  talking  exhausted  me,  and 
so,  with  an  encouraging  nod,  left  me  to  myself.  A  few 
minutes  later  a  couple  of  English  sailors,  belonging  to  the 
Framlingham,  came  up,  and  with  gentle  strength  transported 
me,  under  Mistress  Anne's  directions,  to  a  queer-looking 
wide-beamed  boat  which  lay  almost  alongside.  She  was 
more  like  a  huge  Thames  barge  than  anything  else,  for  she 
drew  little  water,  but  had  a  great  expanse  of  sail  when  all 
was  set.  There  was  a  large  deck-house,  gay  with  paint  and 
as  clean  as  it  could  be ;  and  in  a  compartment  at  one  end 


76  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

of  this — which  seemed  to  be  assigned  to  our  party — I  was 
soon  comfortably  settled. 

Exhausted  as  I  was  by  the  excitement  of  sitting  up  and 
being  moved,  I  knew  little  of  what  passed  about  me  for  the 
next  two  days,  and  remember  less.  I  slept  and  ate,  and 
sometimes  awoke  to  wonder  where  I  was.  But  the  meals 
and  the  vague  attempts  at  thought  made  scarcely  more  im- 
pression on  my  mind  than  the  sleep.  Yet  all  the  while  I 
was  gaining  strength  rapidly,  my  youth  and  health  standing 
me  in  good  stead.  The  wound  in  my  head,  which  had 
caused  great  loss  of  blood,  healed  all  one  way,  as  we  say 
in  Warwickshire;  and  about  noon,  on  the  second  day  after 
leaving  Dort,  I  was  well  enough  to  reach  the  deck  unassisted, 
and  sit  in  the  sunshine  on  a  pile  of  rugs  which  Mistress 
Anne,  my  constant  nurse,  had  laid  for  me  in  a  corner  shel- 
tered from  the  wind. 

•  ••••• 

Fortunately  the  weather  was  mild  and  warm,  and  the 
sunshine  fell  brightly  on  the  wide  river  and  the  wider  plain 
of  pasture  which  stretched  away  on  either  side  of  the  hori- 
zon, dotted,  here  and  there  only,  by  a  windmill,  a  farm- 
house, the  steeple  of  a  church,  the  brown  sails  of  a  barge, 
or  at  most  broken  by  a  low  dike  or  a  line  of  sand-dunes. 
All  was  open,  free ;  all  was  largeness,  space,  and  distance. 
I  gazed  astonished. 

The  husband  and  wife,  who  were  pacing  the  deck  for- 
ward, came  to  me.  He  noticed  the  wondering  looks  I  cast 
round.  "This  is  new  to  you?"  he  said  smiling. 

"Quite — quite  new,"  I  answered.  "I  never  imagined 
anything  so  flat,  and  yet  in  its  way  so  beautiful." 

"You  do  not  know  Lincolnshire?" 

"No." 

"Ah,  that  is  my  native  county,"  he  answered.  "It  is 
much  like  this.  But  you  are  better,  and  you  can  talk  again. 
Now  I  and  my  wife  have  been  discussing  whether  we  shall 
tell  you  more  about  ourselves.  And  since  there  is  no  time 
like  the  present  I  may  say  that  we  have  decided  to  trust 
you." 

"All  in  all  or  not  at  all,"  Mistress  Bertram  added 
brightly. 

I  murmured  my  thanks. 

"Then,  first  to  tell  you  who  we  are.     For  myself  I  am 


ON  BOARD    THE   "  FRAMLINGHAM."  77 

plain  Richard  Bertie  of  Lincolnshire,  at  your  service.  My 
wife  is  something  more  than  appears  from  this,  or" — 
with  a  smile— "from  her  present  not  too  graceful  dress. 
She  is " 

"Stop,  Richard!  This  is  not  sufficiently  formal,"  my 
lady  cried  prettily.  "I  have  the  honor  to  present  to  you, 
young  gentleman,"  she  went  on,  laughing  merrily  and  mak- 
ing a  very  grand  courtesy  before  me,  "Katherine,  Duchess 
of  Suffolk." 

I  made  shift  to  get  to  my  feet,  and  bowed  respectfully, 
but  she  forced  me  to  sit  down  again.  "Enough  of  that," 
she  said  lightly,  "until  we  go  back  to  England.  Here  and 
for  the  future  we  are  Master  Bertram  and  his  wife.  And  this 
young  lady,  my  distant  kinswoman,  Anne  Brandon,  must 
pass  as  Mistress  Anne.  You  wonder  how  we  came  to  be 
straying  in  the  streets  alone  and  unattended  when  you 
found  us?" 

I  did  wonder,  for  the  name  of  the  gay  and  brilliant  Duch- 
ess of  Suffolk  was  well  known  even  to  me,  a  country  lad. 
Her  former  husband,  Charles  Brandon,  Duke  of  Suffolk, 
had  been  not  only  the  one  trusted  and  constant  friend  of 
King  Henry  the  Eighth,  but  the  king's  brother-in-law,  his 
first  wife  having  been  Mary,  Princess  of  England  and  Queen 
Dowager  of  France.  Late  in  his  splendid  and  prosperous 
career  the  Duke  had  married  Katherine,  the  heiress  of 
Lord  Willoughby  de  Eresby,  and  she  it  was  who  stood 
before  me,  still  young  and  handsome.  After  her  husband's 
death  she  had  made  England  ring  with  her  name,  first  by  a 
love  match  with  a  Lincolnshire  squire,  and  secondly  by  her 
fearless  and  outspoken  defense  of  the  reformers.  I  did 
wonder  indeed  how  she  had  come  to  be  wandering  in  the 
streets  at  daybreak,  an  object  of  a  chance  passer's  chivalry 
and  pity. 

"It  is  simple  enough,"  she  said  dryly;  "I  am  rich,  I  am 
a  Protestant,  and  I  have  an  enemy.  When  I  do  not  like  a 
person  I  speak  oat.  Do  I  not,  Richard?" 

"You  do  indeed,  my  dear,"  he  answered  smiling. 

"And  once  I  spoke  out  to  Bishop  Gardiner.  What! 
Do  you  know  Stephen  Gardiner?" 

For  I  had  started  at  the  name,  after  which  I  could 
scarcely  have  concealed  my  knowledge  if  I  would.  So  I 
answered  simply,  "Yes,  I  have  seen  him."  I  was  thinking 


78  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

how  wonderful  this  was.  These  people  had  been  utter 
strangers  to  me  until  a  day  or  two  before,  yet  now  we  were 
all  looking  out  together  from  the  deck  of  a  Dutch  boat  on 
the  low  Dutch  landscape,  united  by  one  tie,  the  enmity  of 
the  same  man. 

"He  is  a  man  to  be  dreaded,"  the  Duchess  continued, 
her  eyes  resting  on  her  baby,  which  lay  asleep  on  my  bundle 
of  rugs — and  I  guessed  what  fear  it  was  had  tamed  her  pride 
to  flight.  "His  power  in  England  is  absolute.  We  learned 
that  it  was  his  purpose  to  arrest  me,  and  determined  to  leave 
England.  But  our  very  household  was  full  of  spies,  and 
though  we  chose  a  time  when  Clarence,  our  steward,  whom 
we  had  long  suspected  of  being  Gardiner's  chief  tool,  was 
away,  Philip,  his  deputy,  gained  a  clew  to  our  design,  and 
watched  us.  We  gave  him  the  slip  with  difficulty,  leaving 
our  luggage,  but  he  dogged  and  overtook  us,  and  the  rest 
you  know." 

I  bowed.  As  I  gazed  at  her,  my  admiration,  I  know, 
shone  in  my  eyes.  She  looked,  as  she  stood  on  the  deck, 
an  exile  and  fugitive,  so  gay,  so  bright,  so  indomitable,  that 
in  herself  she  was  at  once  a  warranty  and  an  omen  of  better 
times.  The  breeze  had  heightened  her  color  and  loosened 
here  and  there  a  tress  of  her  auburn  hair.  No  wonder  Mas- 
ter Bertie  looked  proudly  on  his  Duchess. 

Suddenly  a  thing  I  had  clean  forgotten  flashed  into  my 
mind,  and  I  thrust  my  hand  into  my  pocket.  The  action 
was  so  abrupt  that  it  attracted  their  attention,  and  when  I 
pulled  out  a  packet — two  packets — there  were  three  pairs  of 
eyes  upon  me.  The  seal  dangled  from  one  missive. 
"What  have  you  there?"  the  Duchess  asked  briskly,  for  she 
was  a  woman,  and  curious.  "Do  you  carry  the  deeds  of 
your  property  about  with  you?" 

"No,"  I  said,  not  unwilling  to  make  a  small  sensation. 
"This  touches  your  Grace." 

"Hush!"  she  cried,  raising  one  imperious  finger. 
"Transgressing  already?  From  this  time  forth  I  am  Mis- 
tress Bertram,  remember.  But  come,"  she  went  on,  eying 
the  packet  with  the  seal  inquisitively,  "how  does  it  touch 
me?" 

I  put  it  silently  into  her  hands,  and  she  opened  it  and 
read  a  few  lines,  her  husband  peeping  over  her  shoulder. 
As  she  read  her  brow  darkened,  her  eyes  grew  hard.  Mas- 


ON  BOARD    THE    "  FRAMLINGIIAM."  79 

ter  Bertie's  face  changed  with  hers,  and  they  both  peeped 
suddenly  at  me  over  the  edge  of  the  parchment,  suspicion 
and  hostility  in  their  glances.  "How  came  you  by  this, 
young  sir?"  he  said  slowly,  after  a  long  pause.  "Have  we 
escaped  Peter  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  Paul?" 

"No,  no!"  I  cried  hurriedly.  I  saw  that  I  had  made  a 
greater  sensation  than  I  had  bargained  for.  I  hastened  to 
tell  them  how  I  had  met  with  Gardiner's  servant  at  Stony 
Stratford,  and  how  I  had  become  possessed  of  his  creden- 
tials. They  laughed  of  course — indeed  they  laughed  so 
loudly  that  the  placid  Dutchmen,  standing  aft  with  their 
hands  in  their  breeches-pockets,  stared  open-mouthed  at  us, 
and  the  kindred  cattle  on  the  bank  looked  mildly  up  from 
the  knee-deep  grass. 

"And  what  was  the  other  packet?"  the  Duchess  asked 
presently.  "Is  that  it  in  your  hand?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  holding  it  up  with  some  reluc- 
tance. "It  seems  to  be  a  letter  addressed  to  Mistress  Clar- 
ence." 

"Clarence!"  she  cried.  "Clarence!"  arresting  the  hand 
she  was  extending.  "What!  Here  is  our  friend  again 
then.  What  is  in  it?  You  have  opened  it?" 

"No." 

"You  have  not?  Then  quick,  open  it!"  she  exclaimed. 
"This  too  touches  us,  I  will  bet  a  penny.  Let  us  see  at 
once  what  it  contains.  Clarence  indeed!  Perhaps  we 
may  have  him  on  the  hip  yet,  the  arch-traitor!" 

But  I  held  the  pocket-book  back,  though  my  cheeks  red- 
dened and  I  knew  I  must  seem  foolish.  They  made  certain 
that  this  letter  was  a  communication  to  some  spy,  probably 
to  Clarence  himself  under  cover  of  a  feminine  address. 
Perhaps  it  was,  but  it  bore  a  woman's  name  and  it  was 
sealed ;  and  foolish  though  I  might  be,  I  would  not  betray 
the  woman's  secret. 

"No,  madam,"  I  said  confused,  awkward,  stammering, 
yet  withholding  it  with  a  secret  obstinacy;  "pardon  me  if  I 
do  not  obey  you — if  I  do  not  let  this  be  opened.  It  may 
be  what  you  say,"  I  added  with  an  effort;  "but  it  may  also 
contain  an  honest  secret,  and  that  a  woman's." 

"What  do  you  say?"  cried  the  Duchess;  "here  are  scru- 
ples!" At  that  her  husband  smiled,  and  I  looked  in 
despair  from  him  to  Mistress  Anne.  Would  she  sympathize 


8o  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

with  my  feelings?  I  found  that  she  had  turned  her  back  on 
us,  and  was  gazing  over  the  side.  "Do  you  really  mean," 
continued  the  Duchess,  tapping  her  foot  sharply  on  the 
deck,  "that  you  are  not  going  to  open  that,  you  foolish 
boy?" 

"I  do — with  your  Grace's  leave,"  I  answered. 

"Or  without  my  Grace's  leave!  That  is  what  you 
mean,"  she  retorted  pettishly,  a  red  spot  in  each  cheek. 
"When  people  will  not  do  what  I  ask,  it  is  always,  Grace! 
Grace!  Grace!  But  I  know  them  now." 

I  dared  not  smile;  and  I  would  not  look  up,  lest  my 
heart  should  fail  me  and  I  should  give  her  her  way. 

"You  foolish  boy!"  she  again  said,  and  sniffed.  Then 
with  a  toss  of  her  head  she  went  away,  her  husband  follow- 
ing her  obediently. 

I  feared  that  she  was  grievously  offended,  and  I  got  up 
restlessly  and  went  across  the  deck  to  the  rail  on  which 
Mistress  Anne  was  leaning,  meaning  to  say  something 
which  should  gain  for  me  her  sympathy,  perhaps  her  advice. 
But  the  words  died  on  my  lips,  for  as  I  approached  she 
turned  her  face  abruptly  toward  me,  and  it  was  so  white,  so 
haggard,  so  drawn,  that  I  uttered  a  cry  of  alarm.  "You 
are  ill!"  I  exclaimed.  "Let  me  call  the  Duchess!" 

She  gripped  my  sleeve  almost  fiercely,  "Hush!"  she 
muttered.  "Do  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  am  not  well.  It 
is  the  water.  But  it  will  pass  off,  if  you  do  not  notice 
it.  I  hate  to  be  noticed,"  she  added,  with  an  angry 
shrug. 

I  was  full  of  pity  for  her  and  reproached  myself  sorely. 
"What  a  selfish  brute  I  have  been!"  I  said.  "You  have 
watched  by  me  night  after  night,  and  nursed  me  day  after 
day,  and  I  have  scarcely  thanked  you.  And  now  you  are 
ill  yourself.  It  is  my  fault!" 

She  looked  at  me,  a  wan  smile  on  her  face.  '  'A  little,  per- 
haps,"  she  answered  faintly.  "But  it  is  chiefly  the  water. 
I  shall  be  better  presently.  About  that  letter — did  you  not 
come  to  speak  to  me  about  it?" 

"Never  mind  it  now,"  I  said  anxiously.  "Will  you  not 
lie  down  on  the  rugs  awhile?  Let  me  give  you  my  place," 
I  pleaded. 

"No,  no!"  she  cried  impatiently;  and  seeing  I  vexed 
her  by  my  importunity,  I  desisted.  "The  letter,"  she  went 
on;  "you  will  open  it  by  and  by?" 


ON  BOARD    THE    "  FRA MLINGHAM"  Si 

"No,"  I  said  slowly,  considering,  to  tell  the  truth,  the 
strength  of  my  resolution,  "I  think  I  shall  not." 

"You  will!  you  will!"  she  repeated,  with  a  kind  of 
scorn.  "The  Duchess  will  ask  you  again,  and  you  will 
give  it  to  her.  Of  course  you  will!" 

Her  tone  was  strangely  querulous,  and  her  eyes  continu- 
ally flashed  keen,  biting  glances  at  me.  But  I  thought  only 
that  she  was  ill  and  excited,  and  I  fancied  it  was  best  to 
humor  her.  "Well,  perhaps  I  shall,"  I  said  soothingly. 
"Possibly.  It  is  hard  to  refuse  her  anything.  And  yet  I 
hope  I  may  not.  The  girl — it  may  be  a  girl's  secret." 

"Well?"  she  asked,  interrupting  me  abruptly,  her  voice 
harsh  and  unmusical.  "What  of  her?"  She  laid  her  hand 
on  her  bosom  as  though  to  still  some  secret  pain.  I  looked 
at  her,  anxious  and  wondering,  but  she  had  again  averted 
her  face.  "What  of  her?"  she  repeated. 

"Only  that — I  would  not  willingly  hurt  her!"  I  blurted 
out. 

She  did  not  answer.  She  stood  a  moment,  then  to  my 
surprise  she  turned  away  without  a  word,  and  merely  com- 
manding me  by  a  gesture  of  the  hand  not  to  follow,  walked 
slowly  away.  I  watched  her  cross  the  deck  and  pass 
through  the  doorway  into  the  deck-house.  She  did  not 
once  turn  her  face,  and  my  only  fear  was  that  she  was  ill; 
more  seriously  ill,  perhaps,  than  she  had  acknowledged. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A    HOUSE     OF     PEACE. 

A3  the  day  went  on,  therefore,  I  looked  eagerly  for  Mis- 
tress Anne's  return,  but  she  appeared  no  more,  though 
I  maintained  a  close  watch  on  the  cabin-door.  All  the 
afternoon,  too,  the  Duchess  kept  away  from  me,  and  I 
feared  that  I  had  seriously  offended  her;  so  that  it  was 
with  no  very  pleasant  anticipations  that,  going  into  that  part 
of  the  deck-house  which  served  us  for  a  common  room,  to  see 
if  the  evening  meal  was  set,  I  found  only  the  Duchess  and 
Master  Bertie  prepared  to  sit  down  to  it.  I  suppose  that 
something  of  my  feeling  was  expressed  in  my  face,  for  while 
I  was  yet  half-way  between  door  and  table,  my  lady  gave 
way  to  a  peal  of  merriment. 

"Come,  sit  down,  and  do  not  be  afraid!"  she  cried  pleas- 
antly, her  gray  eyes  still  full  of  laughter.  "I  vow  the  lad 
thinks  I  shall  eat  him.  Nay,  when  all  is  said  and  done,  I 
like  you  the  better,  Sir  Knight  Errant,  for  your  scruples. 
I  see  that  you  are  determined  to  act  up  to  your  name.  But 
that  reminds  me,"  she  added  in  a  more  serious  vein.  "We 
have  been  frank  with  you.  You  must  be  equally  frank 
with  us.  What  are  we  to  call  you,  pray?" 

I  looked  down  at  my  plate  and  felt  my  face  grow  scarlet. 
The  wound  which  the  discovery  of  my  father's  treachery 
had  dealt  me  had  begun  to  heal.  In  the  action,  the  move- 
ment, the  adventure  of  the  last  fortnight,  I  had  well-ni^h 
lost  sight  of  the  blot  on  my  escutcheon,  of  the  shame  which 
had  driven  me  from  home.  But  the  question,  "What  are 
we  to  call  you?"  revived  the  smart,  and  revived  it  with  an 
added  pang.  It  had  been  very  well,  in  theory,  to  proudly 
discard  my  old  name.  It  was  painful,  in  practice,  to  be  un- 
able to  answer  the  Duchess,  "I  am  a  Cludde  of  Coton, 
nephew  to  Sir  Anthony,  formerly  esquire  of  the  body  to 
King  Henry.  I  am  no  unworthy  follower  and  associate 


A   HOUSE   OF  PEACE.  83 

even  for  you,"  and  to  have  instead  to  reply,  "I  have  no 
name.  I  am  nobody.  I  have  all  to  make  and  win."  Yet 
this  was  my  ill- fortune. 

Her  woman's  eye  saw  my  trouble  as  I  hesitated,  confused 
and  doubting  what  I  should  reply.  "Come!"  she  said 
good-naturedly,  trying  to  reassure  me.  "You  are  of  gentle 
birth.  Of  that  we  feel  sure." 

I  shook  my  head.  "Nay,  I  am  of  no  birth,  madam,"  I 
answered  hurriedly.  "I  have  no  name,  or  at  any  rate  no 
name  that  I  can  be  proud  of.  Call  me — call  me,  if  it  please 
you,  Francis  Carey." 

"It  is  a  good  name, ' '  quoth  Master  Bertie,  pausing  with  his 
knife  suspended  in  the  air.  '  'A  right  good  Protestant  name ! ' ' 

"But  I  have  no  claim  to  it,"  I  rejoined,  mere  and  more 
hurt.  "I  have  all  to  make.  I  am  a  new  man.  Yet  do  not 
fear!"  I  added  quickly,  as  I  saw  what  I  took  to  be  a  cloud 
of  doubt  cross  my  lady's  face.  "I  will  follow  you  no  less 
faithfully  for  that!" 

"Well,"  said  the  Duchess,  a  smile  again  transforming 
her  open  features,  "I  will  answer  for  that,  Master  Carey. 
Deeds  are  better  than  names,  and  as  for  being  a  new  man, 
what  with  Pagets  and  Cavendishes  and  Spencers,  we  have 
nought  but  new  men  nowadays.  So,  cheer  up!"  she  con- 
tinued kindly.  '  'And  we  will  poke  no  questions  at  you, though 
I  doubt  whether  you  do  not  possess  more  birth  and  breed- 
ing than  you  would  have  us  think.  And  if,  when  we  return 
to  England,  as  I  trust  we  may  before  we  are  old  men  and 
women,  we  can  advance  your  cause,  then  let  us  have  your 
secret.  No  one  can  say  that  Katherine  Willoughby  ever 
forgot  her  friend." 

"Or  forgave  her  enemy  over  quickly,"  quoth  her  hus- 
band naively. 

She  rapped  his  knuckles  with  the  back  of  her  knife  for 
that ;  and  under  cover  of  this  small  diversion  I  had  time  to 
regain  my  composure.  But  the  matter  left  me  sore  at  heart, 
and  more  than  a  little  homesick.  And  I  sought  leave  to 
retire  early. 

"You  are  right!"  said  the  Duchess,  rising  graciously. 
"To-night,  after  being  out  in  the  air,  you  will  sleep  soundly, 
and  to-morrow  you  will  be  a  new  man,"  with  a  faint  smile. 
"Believe  me,  I  am  not  ungrateful,  Master  Francis,  and  I 
will  diligently  seek  occasion  to  repay  both  your  gallant  de- 


84  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

fense  of  the  other  day  and  your  future  service."  She  gave 
me  her  hand  to  kiss,  and  I  bent  over  it.  "Now,"  she 
continued,  "do  homage  to  my  baby,  and  then  I  shall  con- 
sider that  you  are  really  one  of  us,  and  pledged  to  our 
cause." 

I  kissed  the  tiny  fist  held  out  to  me,  a  soft  pink  thing 
looking  like  some  dainty  sea-shell.  Master  Bertie  cordially 
grasped  my  hand.  And  so  under  the  oil-lamp  in  the  neat 
cabin  of  that  old  Dutch  boat,  somewhere  on  the  Waal 
between  Gorcum  and  Nimuegen,  we  plighted  our  troth  to 
one  another,  and  in  a  sense  I  became  one  of  them. 

I  went  to  my  berth  cheered  and  encouraged  by  their 
kindness.  But  the  interview,  satisfactory  as  it  was,  had  set 
up  no  little  excitement  in  my  brain,  and  it  was  long  before  I 
slept.  When  I  did  I  had  a  strange  dream.  I  dreamed  that 
I  was  sitting  in  the  hall  at  Colon,  and  that  Petronilla  was 
standing  on  the  dais  looking  fixedly  at  me  with  gentle,  sor- 
rowful eyes.  I  wanted  to  go  to  her,  but  I  could  not  move; 
every  dreamer  knows  the  sensation.  I  tried  to  call  to  her, 
to  ask  her  what  was  the  matter,  and  why  she  so  looked  at 
me.  But  I  could  utter  no  sound.  And  still  she  continued 
to  fix  me  with  the  same  sad,  reproachful  eyes,  in  which  I 
read  a  warning,  yet  could  not  ask  its  meaning. 

I  struggled  so  hard  that  at  last  the  spell  was  in  a  degree 
broken.  Following  the  direction  of  her  eyes  I  looked  down 
at  myself,  and  saw  fastened  to  the  breast  of  my  doublet  the 
knot  of  blue  velvet  which  she  had  made  for  my  sword-hilt, 
and  which  I  had  ever  since  carried  in  my  bosom.  More,  I 
saw,  with  a  singular  feeling  of  anger  and  sorrow,  that  a  hand 
which  came  over  my  shoulder  was  tugging  hard  at  the  rib- 
bon in  the  attempt  to  remove  it. 

This  gave  me  horrible  concern,  yet  at  the  moment  I  could 
not  move  nor  do  anything  to  prevent  it.  At  last,  making  a 
stupendous  effort,  I  awoke,  my  last  experience,  dreaming, 
being  of  the  strange  hand  working  at  my  breast.  My  first 
waking  idea  was  the  same,  so  that  I  threw  out  my  arms,  and 
cried  aloud,  and  sat  up.  "Ugh!"  I  exclaimed,  trembling 
in  the  intensity  of  my  relief,  as  I  Iboked  about  and  wel- 
comed the  now  familiar  surroundings.  "It  was  only  a 
dream.  It  was " 

I  stopped  abruptly,  my  eyes  falling  on  a  form  lurking  in 


A   HOUSE   OF  PEACE.    v  85 

the  doorway.  I  could  see  it  only  dimly  by  the  light  of  a 
hanging  lamp,  which  smoked  and  burned  redly  overhead. 
Yet  I  could  see  it.  It  was  real,  substantial — a  waking  fig- 
ure ;  nevertheless,  a  faint  touch  of  superstitious  terror  still 
clung  to  me.  "Speak,  please!"  Tasked.  "Who  is  it?" 

"It  is  only  I,"  answered  a  soft  voice,  well  known  to  me 
— Mistress  Anne's.  "I  came  in  to  see  how  you  were,"  she 
continued,  advancing  a  little,  "and  whether  you  were 
sleeping.  I  am  afraid  I  awoke  you.  But  you  seemed," 
she  added,  "to  be  having  such  painful  dreams  that  perhaps 
it  was  as  well  I  did." 

I  was  fumbling  in  my  breast  while  she  spoke;  and  cer- 
tainly, whether  in  my  sleep  I  had  undone  the  fastenings  or 
had  loosened  them  intentionally  before  I  lay  down  (though 
I  could  not  remember  doing  so),  my  doublet  and  shirt  were 
open  at  the  breast.  The  velvet  knot  was  safe,  however,  in 
that  tiny  inner  pocket  beside  the  letter,  and  I  breathed 
again.  "I  am  very  glad  you  did  awake  me!"  I  replied, 
looking  gratefully  at  her.  "I  was  having  a  horrible  dream. 
But  how  good  it  was  of  you  to  think  of  me — and  when  you 
are  not  well  yourself,  too." 

"Oh,  I  am  better,"  she  murmured,  her  eyes,  which  glis- 
tened in  the  light,  fixed  steadily  on  me.  "Much  better. 
Now  go  to  sleep  again,  and  happier  dreams  to  you.  After 
to-night,"  she  added  pleasantly,  "I  shall  no  longer  consider 
you  as  an  invalid,  nor  intrude  upon  you." 

And  she  was  gone  before  I  could  reiterate  my  thanks. 
The  door  fell  to,  and  I  was  alone,  full  of  kindly  feelings 
toward  her,  and  of  thankfulness  that  my  horrible  vision  had 
no  foundation.  "Thank Heaven!"  I  murmured  more  than 
once,  as  I  lay  down;  "it  was  only  a  dream." 

Next  day  we  reached  Nimuegen,  where  we  stayed  a  short 
time.  Leaving  that  place  in  the  afternoon,  twenty-four 
hours'  journeying,  partly  by  river,  partly,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  by  canal,  brought  us  to  the  neighborhood  of  Arn- 
heim  on  the  Rhine.  It  was  the  ist  of  March,  but  the  open- 
ing month  belied  its  reputation.  There  was  a  brightness, 
a  softness  in  the  air,  and  a  consequent  feeling  as  of  spring 
which  would  better  have  befitted  the  middle  of  April.  All 
day  we  remained  on  deck  enjoying  the  kindliness  of  nature, 
which  was  especially  grateful  to  me,  in  whom  the  sap  of 


86  THE    STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

health  was  beginning  to  spring  again;  and  we  were  still 
there  when  one  of  those  gorgeous  sunsets  which  are  peculiar 
to  that  country  began  to  fling  its  hues  across  our  path. 
We  turned  a  jutting  promontory,  the  boat  began  to  fall  off, 
and  the  captain  came  up,  his  errand  to  tell  us  that  our  jour- 
ney was  done. 

We  went  eagerly  forward  at  the  news,  and  saw  in  a  kind 
of  bay,  formed  by  a  lake-like  expansion  of  the  river,  a  little 
island  green  and  low,  its  banks  trimly  set  with  a  single  row 
of  poplars.  It  was  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a  mile  every  way, 
and  a  channel  one-fourth  as  wide  separated  it  from  the 
nearer  shore  of  the  river;  to  which,  however,  a  long  narrow 
bridge  of  planks  laid  on  trestles  gave  access.  On  the  outer 
side  of  the  island,  facing  the  river's  course,  stood  a  low 
white  house,  before  which  a  sloping  green  terrace,  also  bor- 
dered with  poplars,  led  down  to  a  tiny  pier.  Behind  and 
around  the  house  were  meadows  as  trim  and  neat  as  a  child's 
toys,  over  which  the  eye  roved  with  pleasure  until  it  reached 
the  landward  side  of  the  island,  and  there  detected,  nestling 
among  gardens,  a  tiny  village  of  half  a  dozen  cottages.  It 
was  a  scene  of  enchanting  peace  and  quietude.  As  we 
slowly  plowed  our  way  up  to  the  landing-place,  I  saw  the 
rabbits  stand  to  gaze  at  us,  and  then  with  a  flick  of  their 
heels  dart  off  to  their  holes.  I  marked  the  cattle  moving 
homeward  in  a  string,  and  heard  the  wild  fowl  rise  in  creek 
and  pool  with  a  whir  of  wings.  I  turned  with  a  full  heart 
to  my  neighbor.  "Is  it  not  lovely?"  I  cried  with  enthusi- 
asm. "Is  it  not  a  peaceful  place — a  very  Garden  of 
Eden?" 

I  looked  to  see  her  fall  into  raptures  such  as  women  are 
commonly  more  prone  to  than  men.  But  all  women  are 
not  the  same.  Mistress  Anne  was  looking,  indeed,  when  I 
turned  and  surprised  her,  at  the  scene  which  had  so  moved 
me,  but  the  expression  of  her  face  was  sad  and  bitter  and 
utterly  melancholy.  The  weariness  and  fatigue  I  had  often 
seen  lurking  in  her  eyes  had  invaded  all  her  features.  She 
looked  five  years  older  ;  no  longer  a  girl,  but  a  gray-faced, 
hopeless  woman  whom  the  sight  of  this  peaceful  haven 
rather  smote  to  the  heart  than  filled  with  anticipations  of 
safety  and  repose. 

It  was  but  for  a  moment  I  saw  her  so.  Then  she  dashed 
her  hand  across  lier  eyes — though  I  saw  no  tears  in  them — 


A   HOUSE   OF  PEACE.  87 

and  with  a  pettish  exclamation  turned  away.  "Poor girl!" 
I  thought.  "She,  too,  is  homesick.  No  doubt  this  reminds 
her  of  some  place  at  home,  or  of  some  person."  I  thought 
this  the  more  likely,  as  Master  Bertie  came  from  Lincoln- 
shire, which  he  said  had  many  of  the  features  of  this  strange 
land.  And  it  was  conceivable  enough  that  she  should  know 
Lincolnshire  too,  being  related  to  his  wife. 

I  soon  forgot  the  matter  in  the  excitement  of  landing. 
A  few  minutes  of  bustle  and  it  was  over.  The  boat  put  out 
again  ;  and  we  four  were  left  face  to  face  with  two  strangers, 
an  elderly  man  and  a  girl,  who  had  come  down  to  the  pier  to 
meet  us.  The  former,  stout,  bluff,  and  red-faced,  with  a 
thick  gray  beard  and  a  gold  chain  about  his  neck,  had  the 
air  of  a  man  of  position.  He  greeted  us  warmly.  His 
companion,  who  hung  behind  him,  somewhat  shyly,  was  as 
pretty  a  girl  as  one  could  find  in  a  month.  A  second  look 
assured  me  of  something  more — that  she  formed  an  excel- 
lent foil  to  the  piquant  brightness  and  keen  vivacity,  the 
dark  hair  and  nervous  features  of  Mistress  Anne.  For  the 
Dutch  girl  was  fair  and  plump  and  of  perfect  complexion. 
Her  hair  was  very  light,  ajmost  flaxen  indeed,  and  her  eyes 
were  softly  and  limpidly  blue;  grave,  innocent,  wondering 
eyes  they  were,  I  remember.  I  guessed  rightly  that  she  was 
the  elderly  man's  daughter.  Later  I  learned  that  she  was 
his  only  child,  and  that  her  name  was  Dymphna. 

He  was  a  Master  Lindstrom,  a  merchant  of  standing  in 
Arnheim.  He  had  visited  England  and  spoke  English  fairly, 
and  being  under  some  obligations,  it  appeared,  to  the 
Duchess  Katherine,  was  to  be  our  host. 

We  all  walked  up  the  little  avenue  together.  Master  Lind- 
strom talking  as  he  went  to  husband  or  wife,  while  his 
daughter  and  Mistress  Anne  came  next,  gazing  each 
at  each  in  silence,  as  women  when  they  first  meet  will 
gaze,  taking  stock,  I  suppose,  of  a  rival's  weapons.  I 
walked  last,  wondering  why  they  had  nothing  to  say  to  one 
another. 

As  we  entered  the  house  the  mystery  was  explained. 
"She  speaks  no  English,"  said  Mistress  Anne,  with  a  touch 
of  scorn. 

"And  we  no  Dutch,"  I  answered,  smiling.  "Here  in 
Holland  I  am  afraid  that  she  will  have  somewhat  the  best 
of  us.  Try  her  with  Spanish. " 


88  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

"Spanish!     I  know  none." 

"Well,  I  do,  a  little." 

"What,  you  know  Spanish?"  Mistress  Anne's  tone  of 
surprise  amounted  almost  to  incredulity,  and  it  flattered  me, 
boy  that  I  was.  I  dare  say  it  would  have  flattered  many  an 
older  head  than  mine.  "You  know  Spanish?  Where  did 
you  learn  it?"  she  continued  sharply. 

"At  home." 

"At  home!  Where  is  that?"  And  she  eyed  me  still 
more  closely.  "Where  is  your  home,  Master  Carey?  You 
have  never  told  me." 

But  I  had  said  already  more  than  I  intended,  and  I  shook 
my  head.  "I  mean,"  I  explained  awkwardly,  "that  I 
learned  it  in  a  home  I  once  had.  Now  my  home  is  here. 
At  any  rate  I  have  no  other." 

The  Dutch  girl,  standing  patiently  beside  us,  had  looked 
first  at  one  face  and  then  at  the  other  as  we  talked.  We 
were  all  by  this  time  in  a  long,  low  parlor,  warmed  by  a 
pretty  closed  fireplace  covered  with  glazed  tiles.  On  the 
shelves  of  a  great  armoire,  or  dresser,  at  one  end  of  the  room 
appeared  a  fine  show  of  silver  plate.  At  the  other  end  stood 
a  tall  linen-press  of  walnut-wood,  handsomely  carved ;  and 
even  the  gratings  of  the  windows  and  the  handles  of  the 
doors  were  of  hammered  iron-work.  There  were  no  rushes 
on  the  floor,  which  was  made  of  small  pieces  of  wood  deli- 
cately joined  and  set  together  and  brightly  polished.  But 
everything  in  sight  was  clean  and  trim  to  a  degree  which 
would  have  shamed  our  great  house  at  Coton,  where  the 
rushes  sometimes  lay  for  a  week  unchanged.  With  each 
glance  round  I  felt  a  livelier  satisfaction.  I  turned  to  Mis- 
tress Dymphna. 

"Senorita!"  I  said,  mustering  my  noblest  accent.  "Beso 
los  pies  de  usted!  Habla-usted  Castillano?" 

Mistress  Anne  stared,  while  the  effect  on  the  girl  whom  I 
addressed  was  greater  than  I  had  looked  for,  but  certainly 
of  a  different  kind.  She  started  and  drew  back,  an  expres- 
sion of  offended  dignity  and  of  something  like  anger  ruffling 
her  placid  face.  Did  she  not  understand?  Yes,  for  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  and  with  a  heightened  color,  she  an- 
swered, "Si,  Seftor." 

Her  constrained  manner  was  not  promising,  but  I  was 
going  on  to  open  a  conversation  if  I  could — for  it  looked 


A   HOUSE   OF  PEACE.  89 

little  grateful  of  us  to  stand  there  speechless  and  staring — 
when  Mistress  Anne  interposed.  "What  did  you  say  to 
her?  What  was  it?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

"I  asked  her  if  she  spoke  Spanish.  That  was  all,"  I 
replied,  my  eyes  on  Dymphna's  face,  which  still  betrayed 
trouble  of  some  kind,  "except  that  I  paid  her  the  usual 
formal  compliment.  But  what  is  she  saying  to  her  father?" 

It  was  like  the  Christmas  game  of  cross-questions.  The 
girl  and  I  had  spoken  in  Spanish.  I  translated  what  we  had 
said  into  English  for  Mistress  Anne,  and  Mistress  Dym- 
phna  turned  it  into  Dutch  for  her  father  ;  an  anxious 
look  on  her  face  which  needed  no  translation. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Master  Bertie,  observing  that  some- 
thing was  wrong. 

"It  is  nothing — nothing!"  replied  the  merchant  apolo- 
getically, though,  as  he  spoke,  his  eyes  dwelt  on  me  curiously. 
"It  is  only  that  I  did  not  know  that  you  had  a  Spaniard  in 
your  company." 

"A  Spaniard?"  Master  Bertie  answered.  "We  have 
none.  This,"  pointing  to  me,  "is  our  very  good  friend  and 
faithful  follower,  Master  Carey — an  Englishman." 

"To  whom,"  added  the  Duchess,  smiling  gravely,  "I  am 
greatly  indebted." 

I  hurriedly  explained  the  mistake,  and  brought  at  once  a 
smile  of  relief  to  the  Mynheer's  face.  "Ah!  pardon  me,  I 
beseech  you,"  he  said.  "My  daughter  was  in  error." 
And  he  added  something  in  Dutch  which  caused  Mistress 
Dymphna  to  blush.  "You  know,"  he  continued — "I  may 
speak  freely  to  you,  since  our  enemies  are  in  the  main  the 
same — you  know  that  our  Spanish  rulers  are  not  very  popu- 
lar with  us,  and  grow  less  popular  every  day,  especially 
with  those  who  are  of  the  reformed  faith.  We  have  learned 
some  of  us  to  speak  their  language,  but  we  love  them  none 
the  better  for  that." 

"I  can  sympathize  with  you,  indeed,"  cried  the  Duchess 
impulsively.  "God  grant  that  our  country  may  never  be  in 
the  same  plight :  though  it  looks  as  if  this  Spanish  marriage 
were  like  to  put  us  in  it.  It  is  Spain!  Spain!  Spain!  and 
nothing  else  nowadays!" 

"  Nevertheless,  the  Emperor  is  a  great  and  puissant  mon- 
arch," rejoined  the  Arnheimer  thoughtfully;  "and  could 
he  rule  us  himself,  we  might  do  well.  But  his  dominions 


9°  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

are  so  large,  he  knows  little  of  us.  And  worse,  he  is  dying, 
or  as  good  as  dying.  He  can  scarcely  sit  his  horse,  and 
rumor  says  that  before  the  year  is  out  he  will  resign  the 
throne.  Then  we  hear  little  good  of  his  successor,  your 
queen's  husband,  and  look  to  hear  less.  I  fear  that 
there  is  a  dark  time  before  us,  and  God  only  knows  the 
issue." 

"And  alone  will  rule  it,"  Master  Bertie  rejoined  piously. 

This  saying  was  in  a  way  the  keynote  to  the  life  we 
found  our  host  living  on  his  island  estate.  Peace,  but  peace 
with  constant  fear  for  an  assailant,  and  religion  for  a  sup- 
porter. Several  times  a  week  Master  Lindstrom  would  go 
to  Arnheim  to  superintend  his  business,  and  always  after  his 
return  he  would  shake  his  head,  and  speak  gravely,  and 
Dymphna  would  lose  her  color  for  an  hour  or  two.  Things 
were  going  badly.  The  reformers  were  being  more  and 
more  hardly  dealt  with.  The  Spaniards  were  growing  more 
despotic.  That  was  his  constant  report.  And  then  I 
would  see  him,  as  he  walked  with  us  in  orchard  or  garden, 
or  sat  beside  the  stove,  cast  wistful  glances  at  the  comfort 
and  plenty  round  him.  I  knew  that  he  was  asking  himself 
how  long  they  would  last.  If  they  escaped  the  clutches  of 
a  tyrannical  government,  would  they  be  safe  in  the  times 
that  were  coming  from  the  violence  of  an  ill-paid  soldiery? 
The  answer  was  doubtful,  or  rather  it  was  too  certain. 

I  sometimes  wondered  how  he  could  patiently  foresee  such 
possibilities,  and  take  no  steps,  whatever  the  risk,  to  pre- 
vent them.  At  first  I  thought  his  patience  sprang  from  the 
Dutch  character.  Later  I  traced  its  deeper  roots  to  a  sim- 
plicity of  faith  and  a  deep  religious  feeling,  which  either  did 
not  at  that  time  exist  in  England,  or  existed  only  among 
people  with  whom  I  had  never  come  into  contact.  Here 
they  seemed  common  enough  and  real  enough.  These 
folks'  faith  sustained  them.  It  was  a  part  of  their  lives;  a 
bulwark  against  the  fear  that  otherwise  would  have  over- 
whelmed them.  And  to  an  extent,  too,  which  then  sur- 
prised me,  I  found,  as  time  went  on,  that  the  Duchess  and 
Master  Bertie  shared  this  enthusiasm,  although  with  them  it 
took  a  less  obtrusive  form. 

I  was  led  at  the  time  to  think  a  good  deal  about  this; 
and  just  a  word  I  may  say  of  myself,  and  of  those  days 
spent  on  the  Rhine  inland — that  whereas  before  I  had  taken 


A   HOUSE  OF  PEACE.  91 

but  a  lukewarm  interest  in  religious  questions,  and,  while 
clinging  instinctively  to  the  teaching  of  my  childhood,  had 
conformed  with  a  light  heart  rather  than  annoy  my  uncle, 
I  came  to  think  somewhat  differently  now;  differently  and 
more  seriously.  And  so  I  have  continued  to  think  since, 
though  I  have  never  become  a  bigot ;  a  fact  I  owe,  perhaps, 
to  Mistress  Dymphna,  in  whose  tender  heart  there  was  room 
for  charity  as  well  as  faith.  For  she  was  my  teacher. 

Of  necessity,  since  no  other  of  our  party  could  commu- 
nicate with  her,  I  became  more  or  less  the  Dutch  girl's 
companion.  I  would  often,  of  an  evening,  join  her  on  a 
wooden  bench  which  stood  under  an  elm  on  a  little  spit  of 
grass  looking  toward  the  city,  and  at  some  distance  from 
the  house.  Here,  when  the  weather  was  warm,  she  would 
watch  for  her  father's  return  ;  and  here  one  day,  while  talk- 
ing with  her,  I  had  the  opportunity  of  witnessing  a  sight 
unknown  in  England,  but  which  year  by  year  was  to  become 
more  common  in  the  Netherlands,  more  heavily  fraught  with 
menace  in  Netherland  eyes. 

We  happened  to  be  so  deeply  engaged  in  watching  the 
upper  end  of  the  reach  at  the  time  in  question,  where  we  ex- 
pected each  moment  to  see  Master  Lindstrom's  boat  round 
the  point,  that  we  saw  nothing  of  a  boat  coming  the  other 
way,  until  the  flapping  of  its  sails,  as  it  tacked,  drew  our 
eyes  toward  it.  Even  then  in  the  boat  itself  I  saw  nothing 
strange,  but  in  its  passengers  I  did.  They  were  swarthy, 
mustachioed  men,  who  in  the  hundred  poses  they  assumed, 
as  they  lounged  on  deck  or  leaned  over  the  side,  never  lost 
a  peculiar  air  of  bravado.  As  they  drew  nearer  to  us 
the  sound  of  their  loud  voices,  their  oaths  and  laughter 
reached  us  plainly,  and  seemed  to  jar  on  the  evening  still- 
ness. Their  bold,  fierce  eyes,  raking  the  banks  unceasingly, 
reached  us  at  last.  The  girl  by  my  side  uttered  a  cry  of 
alarm,  and  rose  as  if  to  retreat.  But  she  sat  down  again,  for 
behind  us  was  an  open  stretch  of  turf,  and  to  escape  unseen 
was  impossible.  Already  a  score  of  eyes  had  marked  her 
beauty,  and  as  the  boat  drew  abreast  of  us,  I  had  to  listen  to 
the  ribald  jests  and  laughter  of  those  on  board.  My  ears 
tingled  and  my  cheeks  burned.  But  I  could  do  nothing. 
I  could  only  glare  at  them,  and  grind  my  teeth. 

"Who  are  they?"   I  muttered.    "The  cowardly  knaves!' 

"Oh,  hush!   hush!"  the  girl  pleaded.     She  haJ  retreated 


92  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

behind  me.  And  indeed  I  need  not  have  put  my  ques- 
tion, for  though  I  had  never  seen  the  Spanish  soldiery,  I  had 
heard  enough  about  them  to  recognize  them  now.  In  the 
year  1555  their  reputation  was  at  its  height.  Their  fathers 
had  overcome  the  Moors  after  a  contest  of  centuries,  and 
they  themselves  had  overrun  Italy  and  lowered  the  pride  of 
France.  As  a  result  they  had  many  military  virtues  and 
all  the  military  vices.  Proud,  bloodthirsty,  and  licentious 
everywhere,  it  may  be  imagined  that  in  the  subject  Nether- 
lands, with  their  pay  always  in  arrear,  they  were,  indeed, 
people  to  be  feared.  It  was  seldom  that  even  their  com- 
manders dared  to  check  their  excesses. 

Yet,  when  the  first  flush  of  my  anger  had  subsided,  I 
looked  after  them,  odd  as  it  may  seem,  with  mingled  feel- 
ings. With  all  their  faults  they  were  few  against  many, 
a  conquering  race  in  a  foreign  land.  They  could  boast  of 
blood  and  descent.  They  were  proud  to  call  themselves 
the  soldiers  and  gentlemen  of  Europe.  I  was  against  them, 
yet  I  admired  them  with  a  boy's  admiration  for  the  strong 
and  reckless. 

Of  course  I  said  nothing  of  this  to  my  companion.  In- 
deed, when  she  spoke  to  me  I  did  not  hear  her.  My 
thoughts  had  flown  far  from  the  burgher's  daughter  sitting 
by  me,  and  were  with  my  grandmother's  people.  I  saw,  in 
imagination,  the  uplands  of  Old  Castile,  as  I  had  often 
heard  them  described,  hot  in  summer  and  bleak  in  winter. 
I  pictured  the  dark,  frowning  walls  of  Toledo,  with  its  hun- 
dred Moorish  trophies,  the  castles  that  crowned  the  hills 
around,  the  gray  olive  groves,  and  the  box-clad  slopes.  I 
saw  Palencia,  where  my  grandmother,  Petronilla  de  Vargas, 
was  born ;  Palencia,  dry  and  brown  and  sun-baked,  lying 
squat  and  low  on  its  plain,  the  eaves  of  its  cathedral  a 
man's  height  from  the  ground.  All  this  I  saw.  I  suppose 
the  Spanish  blood  in  me  awoke  and  asserted  itself  at  sight 
of  those  other  Spaniards.  And  then — then  I  forgot  it  all  as 
I  heard  behind  me  an  alien  voice,  and  I  turned  and  found 
Dymphna  had  stolen  from  me  and  was  talking  to  a  stranger. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

PLAYING     WITH     FIRE. 

HE  was  a  young  man,  and  a  Dutchman,  but  not  a  Dutch- 
man of  the  stout,  burly  type  which  I  had  most  common- 
ly seen  in  the  country.  He  had,  it  is  true,  the  usual  fair 
hair  and  blue  eyes,  and  he  was  rather  short  than  tall ;  but 
his  figure  was  thin  and  meager,  and  he  had  a  pointed  nose 
and  chin,  and  a  scanty  fair  beard.  I  took  him  to  be  near- 
sighted :  at  a  second  glance  I  saw  that  he  was  angry.  He 
was  talking  fast  to  Dymphna — of  course  in  Dutch — and  my 
first  impulse,  in  face  of  his  excited  gestures  and  queer  ap- 
pearance, was  to  laugh.  But  I  had  a  notion  what  his  rela- 
tionship to  the  girl  was,  and  I  smothered  this,  and  instead 
asked,  as  soon  as  I  could  get  a  word  in,  whether  I  should 
leave  them. 

"Oh,  no!"  Dymphna  answered,  blushing  slightly,  and 
turning  to  me  with  a  troubled  glance.  I  believe  she  had 
clean  forgotten  my  presence.  "This  is  Master  Jan  Van 
Tree,  a  good  friend  of  ours.  And  this,"  she  continued, 
still  in  Spanish,  but  speaking  to  him,  "is  Master  Carey,  one 
of  my  father's  guests." 

We  bowed,  he  formally,  for  he  had  not  recovered  his 
temper,  and  I — I  dare  say  I  still  had  my  Spanish  ancestors 
in  my  head — with  condescension.  We  disliked  one  another 
at  sight,  I  think.  I  dubbed  him  a  mean  little  fellow, 
a  trader,  a  peddler;  and,  however  he  classed  me,  it  was  not 
favorably.  So  it  was  no  particular  desire  to  please  him 
which  led  me  to  say  with  outward  solicitude,  "I  fear  you 
are  annoyed  at  something,  Master  Van  Tree?" 

"I  am!"  he  said  bluntly,  meeting  me  half-way. 

"And  am  I  to  know  the  cause?"  I  asked,  "or  is  it  a 
secret?" 

"It  is  no  secret!"  he  retorted.  "Mistress  Lindstrom 
should  have  been  more  careful.  She  should  not  have  ex- 
posed herself  to  the  chance  of  being  seen  by  those  miserable 
foreigners." 

"The  foreigners — in  the  boat?"  I  said  dryly. 

"Yes,  of  course — in  the  boat,"  he  answered.  He  was 
obliged  to  say  that,  but  he  glared  at  me  across  her  as  he 


94  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

spoke.  We  had  turned  and  were  walking  back  to  the  house, 
the  poplars  casting  long  shadows  across  our  path. 

"They  were  rude,"  I  observed  carelessly,  my  chin  very 
high.  "But  there  is  no  particular  harm  done  that  1  can 
see,  Master  Van  Tree." 

"Perhaps  not,  as  far  as  you  can  see,"  he  retorted  in  great 
excitement.  "But  perhaps  also  you  are  not  very  far- 
sighted.  You  may  not  see  it  now,  yet  harm  will  follow." 

"Possibly,"  I  said,  and  I  was  going  to  follow  up  this 
seemingly  candid  admission  by  something  very  boorish, 
when  Mistress  Dymphna  struck  in  nervously. 

"My  father  is  anxious,"  she  explained,  speaking  to  me, 
"that  I  should  have  as  little  to  do  with  our  Spanish  govern- 
ors as  possible,  Master  Carey.  It  always  vexes  him  to  hear 
that  I  have  fallen  in  their  way,  and  that  is  why  my  friend 
feels  annoyed.  It  was  not,  of  course,  your  fault,  since  you 
did  not  know  of  this.  It  was  I,"  she  continued  hurriedly, 
"who  should  not  have  ventured  to  the  elm  tree  without  see- 
ing that  the  coast  was  clear." 

I  knew  that  she  was  timidly  trying,  her  color  coming  and 
going,  to  catch  my  eye;  to  appease  me  as  the  greater  stran- 
ger, and  to  keep  the  peace  between  her  ill-matched  com- 
panions, who,  indeed,  stalked  along  eying  one  another 
much  as  a  wolf-hound  and  a  badger-dog  might  regard  each 
other  across  a  choice  bone.  But  the  young  Dutchman's 
sudden  appearance  had  put  me  out.  I  was  not  in  love  with 
her,  yet  I  liked  to  talk  to  her,  and  I  grudged  her  to  him,  he 
seemed  so  mean  a  fellow.  And  so — churl  that  I  was — in 
answer  to  her  speech  I  let  drop  some  sneer  about  the  great 
fear  of  the  Spaniards  which  seemed  to  prevail  in  these  parts. 

"  You  are  not  afraid  of  them,  then?"  Van  Tree  said,  with 
a  smile. 

"No,  I  am  not,"  I  answered,  my  lip  curling  also. 

"Ah!"  with  much  meaning.  "Perhaps  you  do  not  know 
them  very  well." 

"Perhaps  not,"  I  replied.  "Still,  my  grandmother  was 
a  Spaniard." 

"So  I  should  have  thought,"  he  retorted  swiftly. 

So  swiftly  that  I  felt  the  words  as  I  should  have  felt  a 
blow.  "What  do  you  mean?"  I  blurted  out,  halting  before 
him,  with  my  cheek  crimson.  In  vain  were  all  Dymphna's 
appealing  glances,  all  her  signs  of  distress.  "I  will  have 


PLA  YING    WITH  FIRE.  95 

you  explain,  Master  Van  Tree,  what  you  mean  by  that?" 
I  repeated  fiercely. 

"I  mean  what  I  said,"  he  answered,  confronting  me 
stubbornly,  and  shaking  off  Dymphna's  hand.  His  blue 
eyes  twinkled  with  rage,  his  thin  beard  bristled ;  he  was  the 
color  of  a  turkey-cock's  comb.  At  home  we  should  have 
thought  him  a  comical  little  figure ;  but  he  did  not  seem  so 
absurd  here.  For  one  thing,  he  looked  spiteful  enough  for 
anything;  and  for  another,  though  I  topped  him  by  a  head 
and  shoulders,  I  could  not  flatter  myself  that  he  was  afraid 
of  me.  On  the  contrary,  I  felt  that  in  the  presence  of  his 
mistress,  small  and  short-sighted  as  he  was,  he  would  have 
faced  a  lion  without  winking. 

His  courage  was  not  to  be  put  to  the  proof.  I  was  still 
glaring  at  him,  seeking  some  retort  which  should  provoke 
him  beyond  endurance,  when  a  hand  was  laid  on  my  shoul- 
der, and  I  turned  to  find  that  Master  Bertie  and  the 
Duchess  had  joined  HIS. 

"So  here  are  the  truants,"  the  former  said  pleasantly, 
speaking  in  English,  and  showing  no  consciousness  what- 
ever of  the  crisis  in  the  middle  of  which  he  had  come  up, 
though  he  must  have  discerned  in  our  defiant  attitudes,  and 
in  Dymphna's  troubled  face,  that  something  was  wrong. 
"You  know  who  this  is,  Master  Francis,"  he  continued 
heartily.  "Or  have  you  not  been  introduced  to  Master 
Van  Tree,  the  betrothed  of  our  host's  daughter?" 

"Mistress  Dymphna  has  done  me  that  honor,"  I  said 
stiffly,  recovering  myself  in  appearance,  while  at  heart  sore 
and  angry  with  everybody.  "But  I  fear  the  Dutch  gentle- 
man has  not  thanked  her  for  the  introduction,  since  he 
learned  that  my  grandmother  was  Spanish." 

"  Your  grandmother,  do  you  mean?"  cried  the  Duchess, 
much  astonished. 

"Yes,  madam." 

"Well,  to  be  sure!"  she  exclaimed,  lifting  up  her  hands 
and  appealing  whimsically  to  the  others.  "This  boy  is  full 
of  starts  and  surprises.  You  never  know  what  he  will  pro- 
duce next.  The  other  day  it  was  a  warrant!  To-day  it  is 
a  grandmother,  and  a  temper!" 

I  could  not  be  angry  with  her;  and  perhaps  I  was  not 
sorry  now  that  my  quarrel  with  the  young  Dutchman  had 
stopped  where  it  had.  I  affected,  as  well  as  I  could,  to  join 


96  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

in  the  laugh  at  my  expense,  and  took  advantage  of  the 
arrival  of  our  host — who  at  this  moment  came  up  the  slope 
from  the  landing-place,  his  hands  outstretched  and  a  smile 
of  greeting  on  his  kindly  face — to  slip  away  unnoticed,  and 
make  amends  to  my  humor  by  switching  off  the  heads  of 
the  withes  by  the  river. 

But  naturally  the  scene  left  a  degree  of  ill-feeling  behind 
it;  and  for  the  first  time,  during  the  two  months  we  had 
spent  under  Master  Lindstrom's  roof,  the  party  who  sat 
down  to  supper  were  under  some  constraint.  I  felt  that 
the  young  Dutchman  had  had  the  best  of  the  bout  in  the 
garden;  and  I  talked  loudly  and  foolishly  in  the  boyish 
attempt  to  assert  myself,  and  to  set  myself  right  at  least 
in  my  own  estimation.  Master  Van  Tree  meanwhile  sat 
silent,  eying  me  from  time  to  time  in  no  friendly  fashion. 
Dymphna  seemed  nervous  and  frightened,  and  the  Duch- 
ess and  her  husband  exchanged  troubled  glances.  Only 
our  host  and  Mistress  Anne,  who  was  in  particularly 
good  spirits,  were  unaffected  by  the  prevailing  chill. 

Mistress  Anne,  indeed,  in  her  ignorance,  made  matters 
worse.  She  had  begun  to  pick  up  some  Dutch,  and  was 
fond  of  airing  her  knowledge  and  practicing  fresh  sentences 
at  meal-times.  By  some  ill-luck  she  contrived  this  evening 
— particularly  after,  finding  no  one  to  contradict  me,  I  had 
fallen  into  comparative  silence — to  frame  her  sentences  so 
as  to  cause  as  much  embarrassment  as  possible  to  all  of  us. 
"Where  did  you  walk  with  Dymphna  this  morning?"  was 
the  question  put  to  me.  "You  are  fond  of  the  water; 
Englishmen  are  fond  of  the  water,"  she  said  to  Dymphna. 
"Dymphna  is  tall;  Master  Francis  is  tall.  I  sit  by  you 
to-night;  the  Dutch  lady  sat  by  you  last  night,"  and  soon, 
and  so  on,  with  prattle  which  seemed  to  amuse  our  host 
exceedingly — he  was  never  tired  of  correcting  her  mistakes 
— but  which  put  the  rest  of  us  out  of  countenance,  bringing 
the  tears  to  poor  Dymphna's  eyes — she  did  not  know  where 
to  look — and  making  her  lover  glower  at  me  as  though  he 
would  eat  me. 

It  was  in  vain  that  the  Duchess  made  spasmodic  rushes 
into  conversation,  and  in  the  intervals  nodded  and  frowned 
at  the  delinquent.  Mistress  Anne  in  her  innocence  saw 
nothing.  She  went  on  until  Van  Tree  could  stand  it  no 


PLA  YING   WITH  FIRE.  97 

longer,  and  with  a  half-smothered  threat,  which  was  per- 
fectly intelligible  to  me,  rose  roughly  from  the  table,  and 
went  to  the  door  as  if  to  look  out  at  the  night. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  Mistress  Anne  said,  wonderingly, 
in  English.  Her  eyes  seemed  at  length  to  be  opened  to  the 
fact  that  something  was  amiss  with  us. 

Before  I  could  answer,  the  Duchess,  who  had  risen,  came 
behind  her.  "You  little  fool!"  she  whispered  fiercely,  "if 
fool  you  are.  You  deserve  to  be  whipped!" 

"Why,  what  have  I  done?"  murmured  the  girl,  really 
frightened  now,  and  appealing  to  me. 

"Done!"  whispered  the  Duchess;  and  I  think  she 
pinched  her,  for  my  neighbor  winced.  "More  harm  than 
you  guess,  you  minx!  And  for  you,  Master  Francis,  a 
word  with  you.  Come  with  me  to  my  room,  please." 

I  went  with  her,  half-minded  to  be  angry,  and  half- 
inclined  to  feel  ashamed  of  myself.  She  did  not  give  me 
time,  however,  to  consider  which  attitude  I  should  take  up, 
for  the  moment  the  door  of  her  room  was  closed  behind  us, 
she  turned  upon  me,  the  color  high  in  her  cheeks.  "Now, 
young  man,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of  ringing  contempt,  "do 
you  really  think  that  that  girl  is  in  love  with  you?" 

"What  girl?"  I  asked  sheepishly.  The  unexpected  ques- 
tion and  her  tone  put  me  out  of  countenance. 

"What  girl?  What  girl?"  she  replied  impatiently. 
"Don't  play  with  me,  boy!  You  know  whom  I  mean. 
Dymphna  Lindstrom!" 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  meant  Mistress  Anne,"  I  said,  some- 
what impertinently. 

Her  face  fell  in  an  extraordinary  fashion,  as  if  the  sug- 
gestion were  not  pleasant  to  her.  But  she  answered  on  the 
instant:  "Well!  The  vanity  of  the  lad!  Do  you  think  all 
the  girls  are  in  love  with  you?  Because  you  have  been 
sitting  with  a  pretty  face  on  each  side  of  you,  do  you  think 
you  have  only  to  throw  the  handkerchief,  this  way  or  that? 
If  you  do,  open  your  eyes,  and  you  will  find  it  is  not  so. 
My  kinswoman  can  take  care  of  herself,  so  we  will  leave  her 
out  of  the  discussion,  please.  And  for  this  pink  and  white 
Dutch  girl,"  my  lady  continued  viciously,  "let  me  tell  you 
that  she  thinks  more  of  Van  Tree's  little  finger  than  of  your 
whole  body." 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders,  but  still  I  was  mortified.     A 


98  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

young  man  may  not  be  in  love  with  a  girl,  yet  it  displeases 
him  to  hear  that  she  is  indifferent  to  him. 

The  Duchess  noticed  the  movement.  "Don't  do  that," 
she  cried  in  impatient  scorn.  "You  do  not  see  much  in 
Master  Van  Tree,  perhaps?  •  I  thought  not.  Therefore 
you  think  a  girl  must  be  of  the  same  mind  as  yourself. 
Well,"  with  a  fierce  little  nod,  "you  will  learn  some  day 
that  it  is  not  so,  that  women  are  not  quite  what  men  think 
them;  and  particularly,  Master  Francis,  that  six  feet  of 
manhood,  and  a  pretty  face  on  top  of  it,  do  not  always  have 
their  way.  But  there,  I  did  not  bring  you  here  to  tell  you 
that.  I  want  to  know  whether  you  are  aware  what  you  are 
doing?" 

I  muttered  something  to  the  effect  that  I  did  not  know  I 
was  doing  any  harm. 

"You  do  not  call  it  harm,  then,"  the  Duchess  retorted 
with  energy,  "to  endanger  the  safety  of  every  one  of  us? 
Cannot  you  see  that  if  you  insult  and  offend  this  young 
man — which  you  are  doing  out  of  pure  wanton  mischief, 
for  you  are  not  in  love  with  the  girl — he  may  ruin  us?" 

"Ruin  us?"  I  repeated  incredulously. 

"Yes,  ruin  us!"  she  cried.  "Here  we  are,  living  more 
or  less  in  hiding  through  the  kindness  of  Master  Lindstrom 
— living  in  peace  and  quietness.  But  do  you  suppose  that 
inquiries  are  not  being  made  for  us?  Why,  I  would  bet  a 
dozen  gold  angels  that  Master  Clarence  is  in  the  Nether- 
lands, at  this  moment,  tracking  us." 

I  was  startled  by  this  idea,  and  she  saw  I  was.  "We  can 
trust  Master  Lindstrom,  were  it  only  for  his  own  sake,"  she 
continued  more  quietly,  satisfied  perhaps  with  the  effect  she 
had  produced.  "And  this  young  man,  who  is  the  son  of  one 
of  the  principal  men  of  Arnheim,  is  also  disposed  to  look 
kindly  on  us,  as  I  fancy  it  is  his  nature  to  look.  But  if  you 
make  mischief  between  Dymphna  and  him " 

"I  have  not,"  I  said. 

"Then  do  not,"  she  replied  sharply.  "Look  to  it  for 
the  future.  And  more,  do  not  let  him  fancy  it  possible. 
Jealousy  is  as  easily  awakened  as  it  is  hardly  put  to  sleep. 
A  word  from  this  young  man  to  the  Spanish  authorities, 
and  we  should  be  hauled  back  to  England  in  a  trice,  if 
worse  did  not  befall  us  here.  Now,  you  will  be  care- 
ful ? " 


PLAYING   WITH  FIRE.  99 

"I  will,"  I  said,  conscience-stricken  and  a  little  cowed. 

"That  is  better,"  she  replied  smiling.  "I  think  you 
will.  Now  go." 

I  went  down  again  with  some  food  for  thought — with 
some  good  intentions,  too.  But  I  was  to  find — the  discovery 
is  made  by  many — that  good  resolutions  commonly  come  too 
late.  When  I  went  downstairs  I  found  my  host  and  Mas- 
ter Bertie  alone  in  the  parlor.  The  girls  had  disappeared, 
so  had  Van  Tree,  and  I  saw  at  once  that  something  had  hap- 
pened. Master  Bertie  was  standing  gazing  at  the  stove 
very  thoughtfully,  and  the  Dutchman  was  walking  up  and 
down  the  room  with  an  almost  comical  expression  of  annoy- 
ance and  trouble  on  his  pleasant  face. 

"Where  are  the  young  ladies?"  I  asked. 

"Upstairs,"  said  Master  Bertie,  not  looking  at  me. 

"And — and  Van  Tree?"  I  asked  mechanically.  Some- 
how I  anticipated  the  answer. 

"Gone!"  said  the  Englishman  curtly. 

"Ay,  gone,  the  foolish  lad!"  the  Dutchman  struck  in, 
tugging  at  his  beard.  "What  has  come  to  him?  He  is 
not  wont  to  show  temper.  I  have  never  known  him  and 
Dymphna  have  a  cross  word  before.  What  has  come  to 
the  lad,  I  say,  to  go  off  in  a  passion  at  this  time  of  night? 
And  no  one  knows  whither  he  has  gone,  or  when  he  will 
come  back  again!" 

He  seemed  as  he  spoke  hardly  conscious  of  my  presence; 
but  Master  Bertie  turned  and  looked  at  me,  and  I  hung  my 
head,  and  very  shortly  afterward,  I  slunk  out.  The  thought 
of  what  I  might  have  brought  upon  us  all  by  my  petulance 
and  vanity  made  me  feel  sick.  I  crept  up  to  bed  nervous 
and  fearful  of  the  morrow,  listening  to  every  noise  without, 
and  praying  inwardly  that  my  alarm  might  not  be  justified. 

When  the  morrow  came  I  went  downstairs  as  anxious  to 
see  Van  Tree  in  the  flesh  as  I  had  been  yesterday  disap- 
pointed by  his  appearance.  But  no  Van  Tree  was  there  to 
be  seen.  Nothing  had  been  heard  of  him.  Dymphna 
moved  restlessly  about,  her  cheeks  pale,  her  eyes  downcast, 
and  if  I  had  ever  flattered  myself  that  I  was  anything  to  the 
girl,  I  was  undeceived  now.  The  Duchess  shot  angry 
glances  at  me  from  time  to  time.  Master  Bertie  kept  look- 
ing anxiously  at  the  door.  Every  one  seemed  to  fear  and 


loo  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

to  expect  something.  But  none  of  them  feared  and  ex- 
pected it  as  I  did. 

"He  must  have  gone  home;  he  must  have  gone  to  Arn- 
heim,"  said  our  host,  trying  to  hide  his  vexation.  "He 
will  be  back  in  a  day  or  two.  Young  men  will  be  young 
men." 

But  I  found  that  the  Duchess  did  not  share  the  belief 
that  Van  Tree  had  gone  home;  for  in  the  course  of  the 
morning  she  took  occasion,  when  we  were  alone,  to  charge 
me  to  be  careful  not  to  come  into  collision  with  him. 

"How  can  I,  now  he  has  gone?"  I  said  meekly,  feeling 
I  was  in  disgrace. 

"He  has  not  gone  far,"  replied  the  Duchess  meaningly. 
"Depend  upon  it,  he  will  not  go  far  out  of  sight  unless 
there  is  more  harm  done  than  I  think,  or  he  is  very  different 
from  English  lovers.  But  if  you  come  across  him,  I  pray 
you  to  keep  clear  of  him,  Master  Francis." 

I  nodded  assent. 

But  of  what  weight  are  resolutions,  with  fate  in  the  other 
scale!  It  was  some  hours  after  this,  toward  two  o'clock 
indeed,  when  Mistress  Anne  came  to  me,  looking  flurried 
and  vexed.  "Have  you  seen  Dymphna?"  she  asked 
abruptly. 

"No,"  I  answered.     "Why?" 

"Because  she  is  not  in  the  house,"  the  girl  answered, 
speaking  quickly,  "nor  in  the  garden;  and  the  last  time  I 
saw  her  she  was  crossing  the  island  toward  the  footbridge. 
I  think  she  has  gone  that  way  to  be  on  the  lookout — you 
can  guess  for  whom  [with  a  smile].  But  I  am  fearful  lest 
she  shall  meet  some  one  else,  Master  Francis;  she  is  wear- 
ing her  gold  chain,  and  one  of  the  maids  says 'that  she  saw 
two  of  the  Spanish  garrison  on  the  road  near  the  end  of  the 
footbridge  this  morning.  That  is  the  way  by  land  to  Arn- 
heim,  you  know." 

"That  is  bad,"  I  said.     "What  is  to  be  done?" 

"You  must  go  and  look  for  her,"  Anne  suggested.  "She 
should  not  be  alone." 

"Let  her  father  go,  or  Master  Bertie,"  I  answered. 

"Her  father  has  gone  down  the  river — to  Arnheim,  I  ex- 
pect; and  Master  Bertie  is  fishing  in  a  boat  somewhere.  It 
will  take  time  to  find  him.  Why  cannot  you  go?  If  she 
has  crossed  the  footbridge  she  will  not  be  far  away." 


PL  A  YING    WITH  FIRE.  IOI 

She  seemed  so  anxious  as  she  spoke  for  the  Dutch  girl's 
safety,  that  she  infected  me  with  her  fears,  and  I  let  myself 
be  persuaded.  After  all  there  might  be  danger,  and  I  did 
not  see  what  else  was  to  be  done.  Indeed,  Mistress  Anne 
did  not  leave  me  until  she  had  seen  me  clear  of  the  or- 
chard and  half  across  the  meadows  toward  the  footbridge. 
"Mind  you  bring  her  back,"  she  cried  after  me.  "Do  not 
let  her  come  alone!"  And  those  were  her  last  words. 

After  we  had  separated  I  did  think  for  a  moment  that  it 
was  a  pity  I  had  not  asked  her  to  come  with  me.  But  the 
thought  occurred  too  late,  and  I  strode  on  toward  the  head  of 
the  bridge,  resolving  that,  as  soon  as  I  had  sighted  Dymphna, 
I  would  keep  away  from  her  and  content  myself  with 
watching  over  her  from  a  distance.  As  I  passed  by  the  little 
cluster  of  cottages  on  the  landward  side  of  the  island,  I 
glanced  sharply  about  me,  for  I  thought  it  not  unlikely  that 
Master  Van  Tree  might  be  lurking  in  the  neighborhood. 
But  I  saw  nothing  either  of  her  or  him.  All  was  quiet,  the 
air  full  of  spring  sunshine  and  warmth  and  hope  and  the 
blossoms  of  fruit  trees ;  and  with  an  indefinable  pleasure,  a 
feeling  of  escape  from  control  and  restraint,  I  crossed  the 
long  footbridge,  and  set  foot,  almost  for  the  first  time  since 
our  arrival — for  at  Master  Lindstrom's  desire  we  had  kept 
very  close — on  the  river  bank. 

To  the  right  a  fair  road  or  causeway  along  the  waterside 
led  to  Arnheim.  At  the  point  where  I  stood,  this  road  on 
its  way  from  the  city  took  a  turn  at  right  angles,  running 
straight  away  from  the  river  to  avoid  a  wide  track  of  swamp 
and  mere  which  lay  on  my  left — a  quaking  marsh  many 
miles  round,  overgrown  with  tall  rushes  and  sedges,  which 
formed  the  head  of  the  bay  in  which  our  island  lay.  I 
looked  up  the  long,  straight  road  to  Arnheim,  and  saw  only 
a  group  of  travelers  moving  slowly  along  it,  their  backs 
toward  me.  The  road  before  me  was  bare  of  passengers. 
Where,  then,  was  Dymphna,  if  she  had  crossed  the  bridge? 
In  the  last  resort  I  scanned  the  green  expanse  of  rushes  and 
willows,  which  stretched,  with  intervals  of  open  water,  as 
far  as  the  eye  could  reach  on  my  left.  It  was  all  rustling 
and  shimmering  in  the  light  breeze,  but  my  eye  picked  out 
one  or  two  raised  dykes  which  penetrated  it  here  and  there, 
and  served  at  once  as  pathways  to  islets  in  the  mere  and  as 


102  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

breastworks  against  further  encroachments  of  the  river. 
Presently,  on  one  of  these,  of  which  the  course  was  fairly 
defined  by  a  line  of  willows,  I  made  out  the  flutter  of  a 
woman's  hood.  And  I  remembered  that  the  day  before  I 
had  heard  Dymphna  express  a  wish  to  go  to  the  marsh  for 
some  herb  which  grew  there. 

"Right!"  I  said,  seating  myself  with  much  satisfaction 
on  the  last  post  of  the  bridge.  "She  is  safe  enough  there! 
And  I  will  go  no  nearer.  It  is  only  on  the  road  she  is 
likely  to  be  in  danger  from  our  Spanish  gallants!" 

My  eyes,  released  from  duty,  wandered  idly  over  the 
landscape  for  a  while,  but  presently  returned  to  the  dyke 
across  the  mere.  I  could  not  now  see  Dymphna.  The 
willows  hid  her,  and  I  waited  for  her  to  reappear.  She  did 
not,  but  some  one  else  did ;  for  by  and  by,  on  the  same 
path  and  crossing  an  interval  between  the  willows,  there 
came  into  sight  a  man's  form. 

"Ho!  ho!"  I  said,  following  it  with  my  eyes.  "So  I 
may  go  home!  Master  Van  Tree  is  on  the  track.  And 
now  I  hope  they  will  make  it  up!"  I  added  pettishly. 

Another  second  and  I  started  up  with  a  low  cry.  The 
sunlight  had  caught  a  part  of  the  man's  dress,  a  shining 
something  which  flashed  back  a  point  of  intense  light.  The 
something  I  guessed  at  once  was  a  corselet,  and  it  needed 
scarce  another  thought  to  apprise  me  that  Dymphna's  fol- 
lower was  not  Van  Tree  at  all,  but  a  Spanish  soldier! 

I  lost  no  time;  yet  it  took  me  a  minute — a  minute  of 
trembling  haste  and  anxiety — to  discover  the  path  from  the 
causeway  on  to  the  dyke.  When  once  I  had  stumbled  on 
to  the  latter  I  found  I  had  lost  sight  of  both  figures;  but  I 
ran  along  at  the  top  of  my  speed,  calculating  that  the  two, 
who  could  not  be  far  apart,  the  man  being  the  nearer  to  me, 
were  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  rather  more  from  the  road. 
I  had  gone  one-half  of  this  distance  perhaps  when  a  shrill 
scream  in  front  caused  me  to  redouble  my  efforts.  I 
expected  to  find  the  ruffian  in  the  act  of  robbing  the  girl, 
and  clutched  my  cudgel — for,  alas!  I  had  left  my  sword  at 
home — more  tightly  in  my  grasp,  so  that  it  was  an  immense 
relief  to  me  when,  on  turning  an  angle  in  the  dyke,  I  saw  her 
running  toward  me.  Her  face,  still  white  with  fear,  how- 
ever, and  her  hair  streaming  loosely  behind  her,  told  how 


I    STOOD   OVER    HIM    WATCHING    HIM 


PLA  YING    WITH  FIRE.  103 

narrow  had  been  her  escape — if  escape  it  could  be  called. 
For  about  ten  feet  behind  her,  the  hood  he  had  plucked  off 
still  in  his  grasp,  came  Master  Spaniard,  hot-foot  and  pant- 
ing, but  gaining  on  her  now  with  every  stride. 

He  was  a  tall  fellow,  gayly  dressed,  swarthy,  mustachioed, 
and  fierce-eyed.  His  corselet  and  sword-belt  shone  and 
jingled  as  he  ran  and  swore;  but  he  had  dropped  his  feath- 
ered bonnet  in  the  slight  struggle  which  had  evidently  taken 
place  when  she  got  by  him ;  and  it  lay  a  black  spot  in  the 
middle  of  the  grassy  avenue  behind  him.  The  sun — it  was 
about  three  hours  after  noon — was  at  my  back,  and  shining 
directly  into  his  eyes,  and  I  marked  this  as  I  raised  my 
cudgel  and  jumped  aside  to  let  the  girl  pass;  for  she  in  her 
blind  fear  would  have  run  against  me. 

It  was  almost  the  same  with  him.  He  did  not  see  me 
until  I  was  within  a  few  paces  of  him,  and  even  then  I  think 
he  noticed  my  presence  merely  as  that  of  an  unwelcome 
spectator.  He  fancied  I  should  step  aside ;  and  he  cursed 
me,  calling  me  a  Dutch  dog  for  getting  in  his  way. 

The  next  moment — he  had  not  drawn  his  sword  nor  made 
any  attempt  to  draw  it — we  came  together  violently,  and  I 
had  my  hand  on  his  throat.  We  swayed  as  we  whirled 
round  one  another  in  the  first  shock  of  the  collision.  A 
cry  of  astonishment  escaped  him — astonishment  at  my 
hardihood.  He  tried,  his  eyes  glaring  into  mine,  and  his  hot 
breath  on  my  cheek,  to  get  at  his  dagger.  But  it  was  too 
late.  I  brought  down  my  staff,  with  all  the  strength  of  an 
arm  nerved  at  the  moment  by  rage  and  despair,  upon  his 
bare  head. 

He  went  down  like  a  stone,  and  the  blood  bubbled  from 
his  lips.  I  stood  over  him  watching  him.  He  stretched 
himself  out  and  turned  with  a  convulsive  movement  on  his 
face.  His  hands  clawed  the  grass.  His  leg  moved  once, 
twice,  a  third  time  faintly.  Then  he  lay  still. 

There  was  a  lark  singing  just  over  my  head,  and  its  clear 
notes  seemed,  during  the  long,  long  minute  while  I  stood 
bending  over  him  in  an  awful  fascination,  to  be  the  only 
sounds  in  nature.  I  looked  so  long  at  him  in  that  dreadful 
stillness  and  absorption,  I  dared  not  at  last  look  up  lest  I 
should  see  I  knew  not  what.  Yet  when  a  touch  fell  on  my 
arm  I  did  not  start. 


104  THE   STORY  OF  FXANCIS  CLUDDE. 

"You  have  killed  him!"  the  girl  whispered,  shuddering. 

"Yes,  I  have  killed  him,"  I  answered  mechanically. 

I  could  not  take  my  eyes  off  him.  It  was  not  as  if  I  had 
done  this  thing  after  a  long  conflict,  or  in  a  mtle'e  with 
others  fighting  round  me,  or  on  the  battle-field.  I  should 
have  felt  no  horror  then  such  as  I  felt  now,  standing  over 
him  in  the  sunshine  with  the  lark's  song  in  my  ears.  It  had 
happened  so  quickly,  and  the  waste  about  us  was  so  still; 
and  I  had  never  killed  a  man  before,  nor  seen  a  man 
die. 

"Oh,  come  away!"  Dymphna  wailed  suddenly.  "Come 
away ! ' ' 

I  turned  then,  and  the  sight  of  the  girl's  wan  face  and 
strained  eyes  recalled  me  in  some  degree  to  myself.  I  saw 
she  was  ill ;  and  hastily  I  gave  her  my  arm,  and  partly  car- 
ried, partly  supported,  her  back  to  the  road.  The  way 
seemed  long  and  I  looked  behind  me  often.  But  we 
reached  the  causeway  at  last,  and  there  in  the  open  I  felt 
some  relief.  Yet  even  then,  stopping  to  cast  a  backward 
glance  at  the  marsh,  I  shuddered  anew,  espying  a  bright 
white  spark  gleaming  amid  the  green  of  the  rushes.  It  was 
the  dead  man's  corselet.  But  if  it  had  been  his  eye  I  could 
scarcely  have  shrunk  from  it  in  greater  dread. 

It  will  be  imagined  that  we  were  not  long  in  crossing  the 
island.  Naturally  I  was  full  of  what  had  happened,  and 
never  gave  a  thought  to  Van  Tree's  jealousy,  or  the  inci- 
dents of  his  short  visit.  I  had  indeed  forgotten  his  exist- 
ence until  we  reached  the  porch.  There  entering  rapidly, 
with  Dymphna  clinging  to  my  arm,  I  was  so  oblivious  of 
other  matters  that  when  the  young  Dutchman  rose  suddenly 
from  the  seat  on  one  side  of  the  door,  and  at  the  same  mo- 
ment the  Duchess  rose  from  the  bench  on  the  other,  I  did 
not  understand  in  the  first  instant  of  surprise  what  was  the 
matter,  though  I  let  Dymphna's  hand  fall  from  my  arm. 
The  dark  scowling  face  of  the  one,  however,  and  the  anger 
and  chagrin  written  on  the  features  of  the  other,  as  they 
both  glared  at  us,  brought  all  back  to  me  in  a  flash.  But  it 
was  too  late.  Before  I  could  utter  a  word  the  girl's  lover 
pushed  by  me  with  a  fierce  gesture  and  .fiercer  cry,  and  dis- 
appeared round  a  corner  of  the  house. 

"Was  ever  such  folly!"  cried  the  Duchess,  stamping  her 


PLA  YING   WITH  FIRE.  105 

foot,  and  standing  before  us,  her  face  crimson.  "Or  such 
fools!  You  idiot!  You " 

"Hush,  madam,"  I  said  sternly — had  I  really  grown 
older  in  doing  the  deed?  "something  has  happened." 

And  Dymphna,  with  a  low  cry  of  "The  Spaniard!  The 
Spaniard ! "  tottered  up  to  her  and  fainted  in  her  arms. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE    FACE   IN    THE   PORCH. 

"rT>HIS  is  a  serious  matter,"  said  Master  Bertie  thought- 
fully, as  we  sat  in  conclave  an  hour  later  round  the 
table  in  the  parlor.  Mistress  Anne  was  attending  to 
Dymphna  upstairs,  and  Van  Tree  had  not  returned  again ; 
so  that  we  had  been  unable  to  tell  him  of  the  morning's 
adventure.  But  the  rest  of  us  were  there.  "It  consider- 
ably adds  to  the  danger  of  our  position,"  Bertie  continued. 

"Of  course  it  does,"  his  wife  said  promptly.  "But 
Master  Lindstrom  here  can  best  judge  of  that,  and  of  what 
course  it  will  be  safest  to  take." 

"It  depends,"  our  host  answered  slowly,  "upon  whether 
the  dead  man  be  discovered  before  night.  You  see  if  the 
body  be  not  found " 

"Well?"  said  my  lady  impatiently,  as  he  paused. 

"Then  we  must  some  of  us  go  after  dark  and  bury  him," 
he  decided.  "And  perhaps,  though  he  will  be  missed 
at  the  next  roll-call  in  the  city,  his  death  may  not  be 
proved,  or  traced  to  this  neighborhood.  In  that  case  the 
storm  will  blow  over,  and  things  be  no  worse  than  before." 

"I  fear  there  is  no  likelihood  of  that,"  I  said;  "for  I  am 
told  he  had  a  companion.  One  of  the  maids  noticed  them 
lurking  about  the  end  of  the  bridge  more  than  once  this 
morning." 

Our  host's  face  fell. 

"That  is  bad,"  he  said,  looking  at  me  in  evident  con- 
sternation. "Who  told  you?" 

"Mistress  Anne.  And  one  of  the  maids  told  her.  It 
was  that  which  led  me  to  follow  your  daughter." 

The  old  man  got  up  for  about  the  fortieth  time,  and 
shook  my  hand,  while  the  tears  stood  in  his  eyes  and  his  lip 


THE  FACE  IN  THE  PORCH.  107 

trembled.  "Heaven  bless  you,  Master  Carey!"  he  said. 
"But  for  you,  my  girl  might  not  have  escaped." 

He  could  not  finish.  His  emotion  choked  him,  and  he 
sat  down  again.  The  event  of  the  morning — his  daughter's 
danger,  and  my  share  in  averting  it — had  touched  him  as 
nothing  else  could  have  touched  him.  I  met  the  Duchess's 
eyes  and  they  too  were  soft  and  shining,  wearing  an  expres- 
sion very  different  from  that  which  had  greeted  me  on  my 
return  with  Dymphna. 

"Ah,  well!  she  is  safe,"  Master  Lindstrom  resumed, 
when  he  had  regained  his  composure.  "Thanks  to  Heaven 
and  your  friend,  madam !  Small  matter  now  if  house  and 
lands  go! " 

"Still,  let  us  hope  they  will  not,"  Master  Bertie  said. 
"Do  you  think  these  miscreants  were  watching  the  island 
on  our  account?  That  some  information  had  been  given 
as  to  our  presence,  and  they  were  sent  to  learn  what  they 
could?" 

"No,  no!"  the  Dutchman  answered  confidently.  "It 
was  the  sight  of  the  girl  and  her  gewgaws  yesterday  brought 
them — the  villains!  There  is  nothing  safe  from  them  and 
nothing  sacred  to  them.  They  saw  her  as  they  passed  up 
in  the  boat,  you  remember." 

"But  then,  supposing  the  worst  to  come  to  the  worst?" 

"We  must  escape  across  the  frontier  to  Wesel,  in  the 
Duchy  of  Cleves,"  replied  Lindstrom  in  a  matter-of-fact 
tone,  as  if  he  had  long  considered  and  settled  the  point. 
"The  distance  is  not  great,  and  in  Wesel  we  may  find  shel- 
ter, at  any  rate  for  a  time.  Even  there,  if  pressure  be 
brought  to  bear  upon  the  Government  to  give  us  up,  I 
would  not  trust  it.  Yet  for  a  time  it  may  do." 

"And  you  would  leave  all  this?"  the  Duchess  said  in 
wonder,  her  eyes  traveling  round  the  room,  so  clean  and 
warm  and  comfortable,  and  settling  at  length  upon  the  great 
annoire  of  plate,  which  happened  to  be  opposite  to  her. 
"You  would  leave  all  this  at  a  moment's  notice?" 

"Yes,  madam,  all  we  could  not  carry  with  us,"  he 
answered  simply.  "Honor  and  life,  these  come  first.  And 
I  thank  Heaven  that  I  live  here  within  reach  of  a  foreign 
soil,  and  not  in  the  interior,  where  escape  would  be  hope- 
less." 

"  But  if  the  true  facts  were  known,"  the  Duchess  urged, 


loS  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

"would  you  still  be  in  danger?  Would  not  the  magistrates 
protect  you?  The  Schout  and  Schepen  as  you  call  them? 
They  are  Dutchmen." 

"Against  a  Spanish  governor  and  a  Spanish  garrison?" 
he  replied  with  emphasis.  "Ay,  they  would  protect  me — 
as  one  sheep  protects  another  against  the  wolves.  No!  I 
dare  not  risk  it.  Were  I  in  prison,  what  would  become  of 
Dymphna?" 

"Master  Van  Tree?" 

"He  has  the  will  to  shelter  her,  no  doubt.  And  his 
father  has  influence;  but  such  as  mine — a  broken  reed  to 
trust  to.  Then  Dymphna  is  not  all.  Once  in  prison,  what- 
ever the  charge,  there  would  be  questioning  about  religion ; 
perhaps,"  with  a  faint  smile, "questioning  about  my  guests." 

"I  suppose  you  know  best,"  said  the  Duchess,  with  a 
sigh.  "But  I  hope  the  worst  will  not  come  to  the  worst." 

"Amen  to   that!"    he  answered   quite  cheerfully. 

Indeed,  it  was  strange  that  we  seemed  to  feel  more  sorrow 
at  the  prospect  of  leaving  this  haven  of  a  few  weeks,  than  our 
host  of  quitting  the  home  of  a  lifetime.  But  the  necessity 
had  come  upon  us  suddenly,  while  he  had  contemplated  it 
for  years.  So  much  fear  and  humiliation  had  mingled  with 
his  enjoyment  of  his  choicest  possessions  that  this  long- 
expected  moment  brought  with  it  a  feeling  akin  to  relief. 

For  myself  I  had  a  present  trouble  that  outweighed  any 
calamity  of  to-morrow.  Perforce,  since  I  alone  knew  the 
spot  where  the  man  lay,  I  must  be  one  of  the  burying  party. 
My  nerves  had  not  recovered  from  the  blow  which  the  sight 
of  the  Spaniard  lying  dead  at  my  feet  had  dealt  them  so 
short  a  time  before,  and  I  shrank  with  a  natural  repulsion 
from  the  task  before  me.  Yet  there  was  no  escaping  it,  no 
chance  of  escaping  it,  I  saw. 

None  the  less,  throughout  the  silent  meal  to  which  we 
four  sat  down  together,  neither  the  girls  nor  Van  Tree  ap- 
pearing, were  my  thoughts  taken  up  with  the  business  which 
was  to  follow.  I  heard  our  host,  who  was  to  go  with  me, 
explaining  that  there  was  a  waterway  right  up  to  the  dyke, 
and  that  we  would  go  by  boat;  and  heard  him  with  apathy. 
What  matter  how  we  went,  if  such  were  the  object  of  our 
journey?  I  wondered  how  the  man's  face  would  look  when 
we  came  to  turn  him  over,  and  pictured  it  in  all  ghastliest 
shapes.  I  wondered  whether  I  should  ever  forget  the 


THE  FACE  IN  THE  PORCH.  109 

strange  spasmodic  twitching  of  his  leg,  the  gurgle — half 
oath,  half  cry — which  had  come  with  the  blood  from  his 
throat.  When  Lindstrom  said  the  moon  was  up  and  bade 
me  come  with  him  to  the  boat,  I  went  mechanically.  No 
one  seemed  to  suspect  me  of  fear.  I  suppose  they  thought 
that,  as  I  had  not  feared  to  kill  him,  I  should  not  fear  him 
dead.  And  in  the  general  silence  and  moodiness  I  escaped 
notice. 

"It  is  a  good  night  for  the  purpose,"  the  Dutchman  said, 
looking  about  when  we  were  outside.  "It  is  light  enough 
for  us,  yet  not  so  light  that  we  run  much  risk  of  being  seen." 

I  assented,  shivering.  The  moon  was  almost  at  the  full, 
and  the  weather  was  dry,  but  scud  after  scud  of  thin  clouds, 
sweeping  across  the  breezy  sky,  obscured  the  light  from 
time  to  time,  and  left  nothing  certain.  We  loosed  the  small- 
est boat  in  silence,  and  getting  in,  pulled  gently  round  the 
lower  end  of  the  island,  making  for  the  fringe  of  rushes 
which  marked  the  line  of  division  between  river  and  fen. 
We  could  hear  the  frogs  croaking  in  the  marsh,  and  the 
water  lapping  the  banks,  and  gurgling  among  the  tree-roots, 
and  making  a  hundred  strange  noises  to  which  daylight  ears 
are  deaf.  Yet  as  long  as  I  was  in  the  open  water  I  felt  bold 
enough.  I  kept  my  tremors  for  the  moment  when  we 
should  brush  through  the  rustling  belt  of  reeds,  and  the 
willows  should  whisper  about  our  heads,  and  the  rank  vege- 
tation, the  mysterious  darkness  of  the  mere  should  shut  us  in. 

For  a  time  I  was  to  be  spared  this.  Master  Lindstrom 
suddenly  stopped  rowing.  "We  have  forgotten  to  bring  a 
stone,  lad,"  he  said  in  a- low  voice. 

"A  stone?"  I  answered,  turning.  I  was  pulling  the  stroke 
oar,  and  my  back  was  toward  him.  "Do  we  want  a  stone?" 

"To  sink  the  body,"  he  replied.  "We  cannot  bury  it  in 
the  marsh,  and  if  we  could  it  were  trouble  thrown  away. 
We  must  have  a  stone." 

"What  is  to  be  done?"  I  asked,  leaning  on  my  oar  and 
shivering,  as  much  in  impatience  as  nervousness.  "Must 
we  go  back?" 

"No,  we  are  not  far  from  the  causeway  now,"  he  an- 
swered, with  Dutch  coolness.  "There  are  some  big  stones, 
I  fancy,  by  the  end  of  the  bridge.  If  not,  there  are  some 
lying  among  the  cottages  just  across  the  bridge.  Your  eyes 


Iio  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

are  younger  than  mine,  so  you  had  better  go.  I  will  pull 
on,  and  land  you." 

I  assented,  and  the  boat's  course  being  changed  a  point 
or  two,  three  minutes'  rowing  laid  her  bows  on  the  mud, 
some  fifty  yards  from  the  landward  bend  of  the  bridge,  and 
just  in  the  shadow  of  the  causeway.  I  sprang  ashore  and 
clambered  up.  "Hist!"  he  cried,  warning  me  as  I  was 
about  to  start  on  my  errand.  "Go  about  it  quietly,  Master 
Francis.  The  people  will  probably  be  in  bed.  But  be 
secret." 

I  nodded  and  moved  off,  as  warily  as  he  could  desire.  I 
spent  a  minute  or  two  peering  about  the  causeway,  but  I 
found  nothing  that  would  serve  our  purpose.  There  was  no 
course  left  then  but  to  cross  the  planks,  and  seek  what  I 
wanted  in  the  hamlet.  Remembering  how  the  timbers  had 
creaked  and  clattered  when  I  went  over  them  in  the  day- 
light, I  stole  across  on  tiptoe.  I  fancied  I  had  seen  a  pile 
of  stones  near  one  of  the  posts  at  that  end,  but  I  could  not 
find  them  now,  and  after  groping  about  a  while — for  this 
part  was  at  the  moment  in  darkness — I  crept  cautiously  past 
the  first  hovel,  peering  to  right  and  left  as  I  went.  I  did 
not  like  to  confess  to  myself  that  I  was  afraid  to  be  alone  in 
the  dark,  but  that  was  nearly  the  truth.  I  was  feverishly 
anxious  to  find  what  I  wanted  and  return  to  my  companion. 

Suddenly  I  paused  and  held  my  breath.  A  slight  sound 
had  fallen  on  my  ears,  nervously  ready  to  catch  the  slightest. 
I  paused  and  listened.  Yes,  there  it  was  again ;  a  whisper- 
ing of  cautious  voices  close  by  me,  within  a  few  feet  of  me. 
I  could  see  no  one.  But  a  moment's  thought  told  me  that 
the  speakers  were  hidden  by  the  farther  corner  of  the  cot- 
tage abreast  of  which  I  stood.  The  sound  of  human 
voices,  the  assurance  of  living  companionship,  steadied  my 
nerves,  and  to  some  extent  rid  me  of  my  folly.  I  took  a 
step  to  one  side,  so  as  to  be  more  completely  in  the  shadow 
cast  by  the  reed-thatched  eaves,  and  then  softly  advanced 
until  I  commanded  a  view  of  the  whisperers. 

They  were  two,  a  man  and  a  woman.  And  the  woman  was 
of  all  people  Dymphna!  She  had  her  back  to  me,  but 
she  stood  in  the  moonlight,  and  I  knew  her  hood  in  a  mo- 
ment. The  man — surely  the  man  was  Van  Tree  then,  if  the 
woman  was  Dymphna?  I  stared.  I  felt  sure  it  must  be 
Van  Tree.  It  was  wonderful  enough  that  Dymphna  should 


THE  FACE  IN  THE  PORCH.  HI 

so  far  have  regained  nerve  and  composure  as  to  rise  and 
come  out  to  meet  him.  But  in  that  case  her  conduct, 
though  strange,  was  explicable.  If  not,  however,  if  the 
man  were  not  Van  Tree 

Well,  he  certainly  was  not.  Stare  as  I  might,  rub  my  eyes 
as  I  might,  I  could  not  alter  the  man's  figure,  which  was 
of  the  tallest,  whereas  I  have  said  that  the  young  Dutchman 
was  short.  This  man's  face,  too,  though  it  was  obscured 
as  he  bent  over  the  girl  by  his  cloak,  which  was  pulled  high 
up  about  his  throat,  was  swarthy ;  swarthy  and  beardless,  I 
made  out.  More,  his  cap  had  a  feather,  and  even  as  he 
stood  still  I  thought  I  read  the  soldier  in  his  attitude. 
The  soldier  and  the  Spaniard! 

What  did  it  mean?  On  what  strange  combination  had 
I  lit?  Dymphna  and  a  Spaniard!  Impossible.  Yet  a 
thousand  doubts  and  thoughts  ran  riot  in  my  brain,  a  thou- 
sand conjectures  jostled  one  another  to  get  uppermost. 
What  was  I  to  do?  What  ought  I  to  do?  Go  nearer  to 
them,  as  near  as  possible,  and  listen  and  learn  the  truth? 
Or  steal  back  the  way  I  had  come,  and  fetch  Master  Lind- 
strom?  But  first,  was  it  certain  that  the  girl  was  there  of 
her  own  free  will?  Yes,  the  question  was  answered  as  soon 
as  put.  The  man  laid  his  hand  gently  on  her  shoulder. 
She  did  not  draw  back. 

Confident  of  this,  and  consequently  of  Dymphna's  bodily 
safety,  I  hesitated,  and  was  beginning  to  consider  whether 
the  best  course  might  not  be  to  withdiaw  and  say  nothing, 
leaving  the  question  of  future  proceedings  to  be  decided 
after  I  had  spoken  to  her  on  the  morrow,  when  a  movement 
diverted  my  thoughts.  The  man  at  last  raised  his  head. 
The  moonlight  fell  cold  and  bright  on  his  face,  displaying 
every  feature  as  clearly  as  if  it  had  been  day.  And  though 
I  had  only  once  seen  his  face  before,  I  knew  it  again. 

And  knew  him  !  In  a  second  I  was  back  in  England,  look- 
ing on  a  far  different  scene.  I  saw  the  Thames,  its  ebb 
tide  rippling  in  the  sunshine  as  it  ripples  past  Greenwich, 
and  a  small  boat  gliding  over  it,  and  a  man  in  the  bow  of 
the  boat,  a  man  with  a  grim  lip  and  a  sinister  eye.  Yes, 
the  tall  soldier  talking  to  Dymphna  in  the  moonlight,  his 
cap  the  cap  of  a  Spanish  guard,  was  Master  Clarence!  the 
Duchess's  chief  enemy! 


H2  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

I  stayed  my  foot.  With  a  strange  settling  into  resolve 
of  all  my  doubts  I  felt  if  my  sword,  which  happily  I  had 
brought  with  me,  was  loose  in  its  sheath,  and  leaned  for- 
ward scanning  him.  So  he  had  tracked  us!  He  was  here! 
With  wonderful  vividness  I  pictured  all  the  dangers  which 
menaced  the  Duchess,  Master  Bertie,  the  Lindstroms,  my- 
self, through  his  discovery  of  us,  all  the  evils  which  would 
befall  us  if  the  villain  went  away  with  his  tale.  Forgetting 
Dymphna's  presence,  I  set  my  teeth  hard  together.  He 
should  not  escape  me  this  time. 

But  man  can  only  propose.  As  I  took  a  step  forward,  I 
trod  on  a  round  piece  of  wood  which  turned  under  my  foot, 
and  I  stumbled.  My  eye  left  the  pair  for  a  second.  When 
it  returned  to  them  they  had  taken  the  alarm.  Dymphna 
had  started  away,  and  I  saw  her  figure  retreating  swiftly  in 
the  direction  of  the  house.  The  man  poised  himself  a  mo- 
ment irresolute  opposite  to  me;  then  dashed  aside  and  dis- 
appeared behind  the  cottage. 

I  was  after  him  on  the  instant,  my  sword  out,  and  caught 
sight  of  his  cloak  as  he  whisked  round  a  corner.  He 
dodged  me  twice  round  the  next  cottage,  the  one  nearer  the 
river.  Then  he  broke  away  and  made  for  the  bridge,  his 
object  evidently  to  get  off  the  island.  But  he  seemed  at 
last  to  see  that  I  was  too  quick  for  him — as  I  certainly  was 
— and  should  catch  him  half  way  across  the  narrow  plank- 
ing; and  changing  his  mind  again  he  doubled  nimbly  back 
and  rushed  into  the  open  porch  of  a  cottage,  and  I  heard 
his  sword  ring  out.  I  had  him  at  bay. 

At  bay  indeed!  But  ready  as  I  was,  and  resolute  to  cap- 
ture or  kill  him,  I  paused.  I  hesitated  to  run  in  on  him. 
The  darkness  of  the  porch  hid  him,  while  I  must  attack 
with  the  moonlight  shining  on  me.  I  peered  in  cautiously. 
'  Come  out!"  I  cried.  "Come  out,  you  coward!" 
Then  I  heard  him  move,  and  for  a  moment  I  thought  he 
was  coming,  and  I  stood  a-tiptoe  waiting  for  his  rush.  But 
he  only  laughed  a  derisive  laugh  of  triumph.  He  had  the 
odds,  and  I  saw  he  would  keep  them. 

I  took  another  cautious  step  toward  him,  and  shading  my 
eyes  with  my  left  hand,  tried  to  make  him  out.  As  I  did 
so,  gradually  his  face  took  dim  form  and  shape,  confronting 
mine  in  the  darkness.  I  stared  yet  more  intently.  The 
face  became  more  clear.  Nay,  with  a  sudden  leap  into 


THE  FACE  IN  THE  PORCH.  113 

vividness,  as  it  were,  it  grew  white  against  the  dark  back- 
ground— white  and  whiter.  It  seemed  to  be  thrust  out 
nearer  and  nearer,  until  it  almost  touched  mine.  It — his 
face?  No,  it  was  not  his  face !  For  one  awful  moment  a 
terror,  which  seemed  to  still  my  heart,  glued  me  to  the 
ground  where  I  stood,  as  it  flashed  upon  my  brain  that  it 
was  another  face  that  grinned  at  me  so  close  to  mine,  that 
it  was  another  face  I  was  looking  on  ;  the  livid,  bloodstained 
face  and  stony  eyes  of  the  man  I  had  killed! 

With  a  wild  scream  I  turned  and  fled.  By  instinct,  for 
terror  had  deprived  me  of  reason,  I  hied  to  the  bridge,  and 
keeping,  I  knew  not  how,  my  footing  upon  the  loose  clatter- 
ing planks,  made  one  desperate  rush  across  it.  The  shim- 
mering water  below,  in  which  I  saw  that  face  a  thousand 
times  reflected,  the  breeze,  which  seemed  the  dead  man's 
hand  clutching  me,  lent  wings  to  my  flight.  I  sprang  at  a 
bound  from  the  bridge  to  the  bank,  from  the  bank  to  the 
boat,  and  overturning,  yet  never  seeing,  my  startled  com- 
panion, shoved  off  from  the  shore  with  all  my  might — and 
fell  a-crying. 

A  very  learned  man,  physician  to  the  Queen's  Majesty 
has  since  told  me,  when  I  related  this  strange  story  to  him, 
that  probably  that  burst  of  tears  saved  my  reason.  It  so 
far  restored  me  at  any  rate  that  I  presently  knew  where  I 
was — cowering  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  with  my  eyes  cov- 
ered ;  and  understood  that  Master  Lindstrom  was  leaning 
over  me  in  a  terrible  state  of  mind,  imploring  me  in  mingled 
Dutch  and  English  to  tell  him  what  had  happened.  "I 
have  seen  him!"  was  all  I  could  say  at  first,  and  I  scarcely 
dared  remove  my  hands  from  my  eyes.  "I  have  seen 
him!"  I  begged  my  host  to  row  away  from  the  shore,  and 
after  a  time  was  able  to  tell  him  what  the  matter  was,  he 
sitting  the  while  with  his  arm  round  my  shoulder. 

"You  are  sure  that  it  was  the  Spaniard?"  he  said  kindly, 
after  he  had  thought  a  minute. 

"Quite  sure,"  I  answered  shuddering,  yet  with  less  vio- 
lence. "How  could  I  be  mistaken?  If  you  had  seen 
him " 

"And  you  are  sure — did  you  feel  his  heart  this  morning? 
Whether  it  was  beating?" 

"His  heart?"  Something  in  his  voice  gave  me  courage 
to  look  up,  though  I  still  shunned  the  water,  lest  that  dread- 


1 14  THE  STOR  Y  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

ful  visage  should  rise  from  the  depths.  "No,  I  did  not 
touch  him." 

"And  you  tell  me  that  he  fell  on  his  face.  Did  you  turn 
him  over?" 

"No."  I  saw  his  drift  now.  I  was  sitting  erect.  My 
brain  began  to  work  again.  "No,"  I  admitted;  "I  did 
not." 

"Then  how "  asked  the  Dutchman  roughly — "how  do 

you  know  that  he  was  dead,  young  sir?  Tell  me  that." 

When  I  explained,  "Bah!"  he  cried.  "There  is  nothing 
in  that!  You  jumped  to  a  conclusion.  I  thought  a  Span- 
iard's head  was  harder  to  break.  As  for  the  blood  coming 
from  his  mouth,  perhaps  he  bit  his  tongue,  or  did  any  one 
of  a  hundred  things — except  die,  Master  Francis.  That 
you  may  be  sure  is  just  what  he  did  not  do." 

"You  think  so?"  I  said  gratefully.  I  began  to  look 
about  me,  yet  still  with  a  tremor  in  my  limbs,  and  an  in- 
clination to  start  at  shadows. 

"Think?"  he  rejoined,  with  a  heartiness  which  brought 
conviction  home  tome;  "I  am  sure  of  it.  You  may  de- 
pend upon  it  that  Master  Clarence,  or  the  man  you  take  for 
Master  Clarence — who  no  doubt  was  the  other  soldier  seen 
with  the  scoundrel  this  morning — found  him  hurt  late  in  the 
evening.  Then,  seeing  him  in  that  state,  he  put  him  in  the 
porch  for  shelter,  either  because  he  could  not  get  him  to 
Arnheim  at  once,  or  because  he  did  not  wish  to  give  the 
alarm  before  he  had  made  his  arrangements  for  netting 
your  party." 

"That  is  possible!"  I  allowed,  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 
"But  what  of  Master  Clarence?" 

"Well,"  the  old  man  said;  "let  us  get  home  first.  We 
will  talk  of  him  afterward." 

I  felt  he  had  more  in  his  mind  than  appeared,  and  I 
obeyed;  growing  ashamed  now  of  my  panic,  and  looking 
forward  with  no  very  pleasant  feelings  to  hearing  the  story 
narrated.  But  when  we  reached  the  house,  and  found 
Master  Bertie  and  the  Duchess  in  the  parlor  waiting  for  us 
— they  rose  startled  at  sight  of  my  face — he  bade  me  leave 
that  out,  but  tell  the  rest  of  the  story. 

I  complied,  describing  how  I  had  seen  Dymphna  meet 
Clarence,  and  what  I  had  observed  to  pass  between  them. 
The  astonishment  of  my  hearers  may  be  imagined.  "The 


THE  FACE  IN  THE  PORCH.  115 

point  is  very  simple, ' '  said  our  host  coolly,  when  I  had,  in  the 
the  face  of  many  exclamations  and  some  incredulity,  com- 
pleted the  tale;  "it  is  just  this!  The  woman  certainly  was 
not  Dymphna.  In  the  first  place,  she  would  not  be  out  at 
night.  In  the  second  place,  what  could  she  know  of  your 
Clarence,  an  Englishman  and  a  stranger?  In  the  third 
place,  I  will  warrant  she  has  been  in  her  room  all  the  even- 
ing. Then  if  Master  Francis  was  mistaken  in  the  woman, 
may  he  not  have  been  mistaken  in  the  man?  That  is  the 
point." 

"No,"  I  said  boldly.  "I  only  saw  her  back.  I  saw  his 
face." 

"Certainly,  that  is  something,"  Master  Lindstrom  ad- 
mitted reluctantly. 

"But  how  many  times  had  you  seen  him  before?"  put  in 
my  lady  very  pertinently.  "Only  once." 

In  answer  to  that  I  could  do  no  more  than  give  further 
assurance  of  my  certainty  on  the  point.  "It  was  the  man  I 
saw  in  the  boat  at  Greenwich,"  I  declared  positively. 
"Why  should  I  imagine  it?" 

"All  the  same,  I  trust  you  have,"  she  rejoined.  "For,  if 
it  was  indeed  that  arch  scoundrel,  we  are  undone." 

"Imagination  plays  us  queer  tricks  sometimes,"  Master 
Lindstrom  said,  with  a  smile  of  much  meaning.  "But 
come,  lad,  I  will  ask  Dymphna,  though  I  think  it  useless  to 
do  so.  For  whether  you  are  right  or  wrong  as  to  your 
friend,  I  will  answer  for  it  you  are  wrong  as  to  my  daugh- 
ter." 

He  was  rising  to  go  from  them  for  the  purpose,  when 
Mistress  Anne  opened  the  door  and  came  in.  She  looked 
somewhat  startled  at  finding  us  all  in  conclave.  "I  thought 
I  heard  your  voices,"  she  explained  timidly,  standing  be- 
tween us  and  the  door.  "I  could  not  sleep." 

She  looked  indeed  as  if  that  were  so.  Her  eyes  were 
very  bright,  and  there  was  a  bright  spot  of  crimson  in  each 
cheek.  "What  is  it?"  she  went  on  abrputly,  looking  hard 
at  me  and  shutting  her  lips  tightly.  There  was  so  much  to 
explain  that  no  one  had  taken  it  in  hand  to  begin. 

"It  is  just  this,"  the  Duchess  said,  opening  her  mouth 
with  a  snap.  "Have  you  been  with  Dymphna  all  the  time?" 

"Yes,  of  course,"  was  the  prompt  answer. 

"What  is  she  doing?" 


H6  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

"Doing?"  Mistress  Anne  repeated  in  surprise.  "She  is 
asleep." 

"Has  she  been  out  since  nightfall?"  the  Duchess  con- 
tinued. "Out  of  her  room?  Or  out  of  the  house?" 

"Out?  Certainly  not.  Before  she  fell  asleep  she  was  in 
no  state  to  go  out,  as  you  know,  though  I  hope  she  will  be 
all  right  when  she  awakes.  Who  says  she  has  been  out?" 
Anne  added  sharply.  She  looked  at  me  with  a  challenge 
in  her  eyes,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Is  it  you?" 

"I  am  satisfied,"  I  said,  "that  I  was  mistaken  as  to  Mis- 
tress Dymphna.  But  I  am  just  as  sure  as  before  that  I  saw 
Clarence." 

"Clarence?"  Mistress  Anne  repeated,  starting  violently, 
and  the  color  for  an  instant  fleeing  from  her  cheeks.  She 
sat  down  on  the  nearest  seat. 

"You  need  not  be  afraid,  Anne,"  my  lady  said  smiling. 
She  had  a  wonderfully  high  courage  herself.  "I  think  Mas- 
ter Francis  was  mistaken,  though  he  is  so  certain  about  it." 

"But  where — where  did  he  see  him?"  the  girl  asked. 
She  still  trembled. 

Once  more  I  had  to  tell  the  tale ;  Mistress  Anne,  as  was 
natural,  listening  to  it  with  the  liveliest  emotions.  And 
this  time  so  much  of  the  ghost  story  had  to  be  introduced — 
for  she  pressed  me  closely  as  to  where  I  had  left  Clarence, 
and  why  I  had  let  him  go — that  my  assurances  got  less 
credence  than  ever. 

"I  think  I  see  how  it  is,"  she  said,  with  a  saucy  scorn 
that  hurt  me  not  a  little.  "Master  Carey's  nerves  are  in 
much  the  same  state  to-night  as  Dymphna's.  He  thought 
he  saw  a  ghost,  and  he  did  not.  He  thought  he  saw 
Dymphna,  and  he  did  not.  And  he  thought  he  saw  Master 
Clarence,  and  he  did  not." 

"Not  so  fast,  child!"  cried  the  Duchess  sharply,  seeing 
me  wince.  "Your  tongue  runs  too  freely.  No  one  has 
had  better  proofs  of  Master  Carey's  courage — for  which  I 
will  answer  myself — than  we  have!" 

"Then  he  should  not  say  things  about  Dymphna!"  the 
young  lady  retorted,  her  foot  tapping  the  floor,  and  the  red 
spots  back  in  her  cheeks.  "Such  rubbish  I  never  heard!" 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A    FOUL    BLOW. 

THEY  none  of  them  believed  me,  it  seemed;  and  smart- 
ing under  Mistress  Anne's  ridicule,  hurt  by  even  the 
Duchess's  kindly  incredulity,  what  could  I  do?  Only 
assert  what  I  had  asserted  already,  that  it  was  undoubtedly 
Clarence,  and  that  before  twenty-four  hours  elapsed  they 
would  have  proof  of  my  words. 

At  mention  of  this  possibility  Master  Bertie  looked  up. 
He  had  left  the  main  part  in  the  discussion  to  others,  but 
now  he  intervened.  "One  moment!"  he  said.  "Take  it 
that  the  lad  is  right,  Master  Lindstrom.  Is  there  any  pre- 
caution we  can  adopt,  any  back  door,  so  to  speak,  we  can 
keep  open,  in  case  of  an  attempt  to  arrest  us  being  made? 
What  would  be  the  line  of  our  retreat  to  Wesel?" 

"The  river,"  replied  the  Dutchman  promptly. 

"And  the  boats  are  all  at  the  landing-stage?" 

"They  are,  and  for  that  reason  they  are  useless  in  an 
emergency,"  our  host  answered  thoughtfully.  "Knowing 
the  place,  any  one  sent  to  surprise  and  arrest  us  would 
secure  them  first,  and  the  bridge.  Then  they  would  have 
us  in  a  trap.  It  might  be  well  to  take  a  boat  round,  and 
moor  it  in  the  little  creek  in  the  farther  orchard,"  he  added, 
rising.  "It  is  a  good  idea,  at  any  rate.  I  will  go  and 
do  it." 

He  went  out,  leaving  us  four — the  Duchess,  her  husband, 
Anne,  and  myself — sitting  round  the  lamp. 

"If  Master  Carey  is  so  certain  that  it  was  Clarence,"  my 
lady  began,  "I  think  he  ought  to " 

"Yes,  Kate?"  her  husband  said.  She  had  paused  and 
seemed  to  be  listening. 

"Ought  to  open  that  letter  he  has!"  she  continued  im- 
petuously. "I  have  no  doubt  it  is  a  letter  to  Clarence. 
Now  the  rogue  has  come  on  the  scene  again,  the  lad's  scru- 
ples ought  not  to  stand  in  the  way.  They  are  all  nonsense. 
The  letter  may  throw  some  light  on  the  Bishop's  schemes 
and  Clarence's  presence  here;  and  it  should  be  read. 
That  is  what  I  think." 

"What  do  you  say,  Carey?"  her  husband  asked,  as  I 
kept  silence.  "Is  not  that  reasonable?" 


n8  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

Sitting  with  my  elbows  on  the  table,  I  twisted  and  un- 
twisted the  fingers  of  my  clasped  hands,  gazing  at  them  the 
while  as  though  inspiration  might  come  of  them.  What 
was  I  to  do?  I  knew  that  the  three  pairs  of  eyes  were  upon 
me,  and  the  knowledge  distracted-  me,  and  prevented  me 
really  thinking,  though  I  seemed  to  be  thinking  so  hard. 
"Well,"  I  burst  out  at  last,  "the  circumstances  are  cer- 
tainly altered.  I  see  no  reason  why  I  should  not " 

Crash ! 

I  stopped,  uttering  an  exclamation,  and  we  all  sprang  to 
our  feet.  "Oh,  what  a  pity!"  the  Duchess  cried,  clasping 
her  hands.  "You  clumsy,  clumsy  girl!  What  have  you 
done?" 

Mistress  Anne's  sleeve  as  she  turned  had  swept  from  the 
table  a  Florentine  jug,  one  of  Master  Lindstrom's  greatest 
treasures,  and  it  lay  in  a  dozen  fragments  on  the  floor.  We 
stood  and  looked  at  it,  the  Duchess  in  anger,  Master  Bertie 
and  I  in  comic  dismay.  The  girl's  lip  trembled,  and  she 
turned  quite  white  as  she  contemplated  the  ruin  she  had 
caused. 

"Well,  you  have  done  it  now!"  the  Duchess  said  piti- 
lessly. What  woman  could  ever  overlook  clumsiness  in 
another  woman!  "It  only  remains  to  pick  up  the  pieces, 
miss.  If  a  man  had  done  it — but  there,  pick  up  the  pieces. 
You  will  have  to  make  your  tale  good  to  Master  Lindstrom 
afterward." 

I  went  down  on  my  knees  and  helped  Anne,  the  annoy- 
ance her  incredulity  had  caused  me  forgotten.  She  was  so 
shaken  that  I  heard  the  bits  of  ware  in  her  hand  clatter 
together.  When  we  had  picked  up  all,  even  to  the  smallest 
piece,  I  rose,  and  the  Duchess  returned  to  the  former  sub- 
ject. "You  will  open  this  letter,  then?"  she  said;  "I  see 
you  will.  Then  the  sooner  the  better.  Have  you  got  it 
about  you?" 

"No,  it  is  in  my  bedroom,"  I  answered.  "I  hid  it  away 
there,  and  I  must  fetch  it.  But  do  you  think,"  I  con- 
tinued, pausing  as  I  opened  the  door  for  Mistress  Anne  to 
go  out  with  her  double  handful  of  fragments,  "it  is  abso- 
lutely necessary  to  read  it,  my  lady?" 

"Most  certainly,"  she  answered,  gravely  nodding  with 
each  syllable,  "I  think  so.  I  will  be  responsible."  And 
Master  Bertie  nodded  also. 


A  FOUL  BLOW.  119 

"So  be  it,"  I  said  reluctantly.  And  I  was  about  to  leave 
the  room  to  fetch  the  letter — my  bedroom  being  in  a  differ- 
ent part  of  the  house,  only  connected  with  the  main  build- 
ing by  a  covered  passage — when  our  host  returned.  He 
told  us  that  he  had  removed  a  boat,  and  I  stayed  a  while  to 
hear  if  he  had  anything  more  to  report,  and  then,  finding 
he  had  not,  went  out  to  go  to  my  room,  shutting  the  door 
behind  me. 

The  passage  I  have  mentioned,  which  was  merely  formed 
of  rough  planks,  was  very  dark.  At  the  nearer  end  was  the 
foot  of  the  staircase  leading  to  the  upper  rooms.  Farther 
along  was  a  door  in  the  side  opening  into  the  garden.  Go- 
ing straight  out  of  the  lighted  room,  I  had  almost  to  grope 
my  way,  feeling  the  walls  with  my  hands.  When  I  had 
about  reached  the  middle  I  paused.  It  struck  me  that  the 
door  into  the  garden  must  be  open,  for  I  felt  a  cold  draught 
of  air  strike  my  brow,  and  saw,  or  fancied  I  saw,  a  slice  of 
night  sky  and  the  branch  of  a  tree  waving  against  it.  I 
took  a  step  forward,  slightly  shivering  in  the  night  air  as  I 
did  so,  and  had  stretched  out  my  hand  with  the  intention  of 
closing  the  door,  when  a  dark  form  rose  suddenly  close  to 
me,  I  saw  a  knife  gleam  in  the  starlight,  and  the  next  mo- 
ment I  reeled  back  into  the  darknesss  of  the  passage,  a  sharp 
pain  in  my  breast. 

I  knew  at  once  what  had  happened  to  me,  and  leaned  a 
moment  against  the  planking  with  a  sick,  faint  feeling,  say- 
ing to  myself,  "I  have  it  this  time!"  The  attack  had  been 
so  sudden  and  unexpected,  I  had  been  taken  so  completely 
off  my  guard,  that  I  had  made  no  attempt  either  to  strike  or 
to  clutch  my  assailant,  and  I  suppose  only  the  darkness  of 
the  passage  saved  me  from  another  blow.  But  was  one 
needed?  The  hand  which  I  had  raised  instinctively  to 
shield  my  throat  was  wet  with  the  warm  blood  trickling  fast 
down  my  breast.  I  staggered  back  to  the  door  of  the  par- 
lor, groped  blindly  for  the  latch,  seemed  to  be  an  age  find- 
ing it,  found  it  at  last,  and  walked  in. 

The  Duchess  sprang  up  at  sight  of  me.  "What,"  she 
cried,  backing  from  me,  "what  has  happened?" 

"I  have  been  stabbed,"  I  said,  and  I  sat  down. 

It  amused  me  afterward  to  recall  what  they  all  did.  The 
Dutchman  stared,  my  lady  screamed  loudly,  Master  Bertie 


120  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

whipped  out  his  sword ;  he  could  make  up  his  mind  quickly 
enough  at  times. 

"I  think  he  has  gone,"  I  said  faintly. 

The  words  brought  the  Duchess  to  her  knees  by  my  chair. 
She  tore  open  my  doublet,  through  which  the  blood  was 
oozing  fast.  I  made  no  doubt  that  I  was  a  dead  man,  for  I 
had  never  been  wounded  in  this  way  before,  and  the  blood 
scared  me.  I  remember  my  prevailing  idea  was  a  kind 
of  stunned  pity  for  myself.  Perhaps  later — I  hope  so — I 
should  have  come  to  think  of  Petronilla  and  my  uncle  and 
other  people.  But  before  this  stage  was  readied,  the 
Duchess  reassured  me.  "Courage,  lad!"  she  cried  heartily. 
"It  is  all  right,  Dick.  The  villain  struck  him  on  the 
breastbone  an  inch  too  low,  and  has  just  ripped  up  a  scrap 
of  skin.  It  has  blooded  him  for  the  spring,  that  is  all.  A 
bit  of  plaster " 

"And  a  drink  of  strong  waters,"  suggested  the  Dutch- 
man soberly — his  thoughts  were  always  to  the  point  when 
they  came. 

"Yes,  that  too,"  quoth  my  lady,  "and  he  will  be  all 
right." 

I  thought  so  myself  when  I  had  emptied  ihe  cup  they 
offered  me.  I  had  been  a  good  deal  shaken  by  the  events 
of  the  day.  The  sight  of  blood  had  further  upset  me.  I 
really  think  it  possible  I  might  have  died  of  this  slight  hurt 
and  my  imagination,  if  I  had  been  left  to  myself.  But  the 
Duchess's  assurance  and  the  draught  of  schnapps,  which 
seemed  to  send  new  blood  through  my  veins,  made  me  feel 
ashamed  of  myself.  If  the  Duchess  would  have  let  me,  I 
would  at  once  have  gone  to  search  the  premises;  as  it  was, 
she  made  me  sit  still  while  she  ran  to  and  fro  for  hot  water 
and  plaster,  and  the  men  searched  the  lower  rooms  and 
secured  the  door  afresh. 

"And  so  you  could  see  nothing  of  him?"  our  host  asked, 
when  he  and  Master  Bertie  returned,  weapons  in  hand. 
"Nothing  of  his  figure  or  face?" 

"Nothing,  save  that  he  was  short,"  I  answered ;  "shorter 
than  I  am,  at  any  rate,  and  I  fancy  a  good  deal." 

"A  good  deal  shorter  than  you  are?"  my  lady  said  un- 
easily; "that  is  no  clew.  In  this  country  nine  people  out 
of  ten  are  that.  Clarence,  now,  is  not." 


A  FOUL  BLOW.  1 21 

"No,"  I  said;  "he  is  about  the  same  height.  It  was  not 
Clarence." 

"Then  who  could  it  be?"  she  muttered,  rising,  and  then 
with  a  quick  shudder  sitting  down  again.  "Heaven  help  us, 
we  seem  to  be  in  the  midst  of  foes!  What  could  be  the 
motive?  And  why  should  the  villain  have  selected  you? 
Why  pick  you  out?" 

Thereupon  a  strange  thing  happened.  Three  pairs  of 
English  eyes  met,  and  signaled  a  common  message  eye  to 
eye.  No  word  passed,  but  the  message  was  "Van  Tree!" 
When  we  had  glanced  at  one  another  we  looked  all  of  us 
at  our  host — looked  somewhat  guiltily.  He  was  deep  in 
thought,  his  eyes  on  the  stove;  but  he  seemed  to  feel  our 
gaze  upon  him,  and  he  looked  up  abruptly.  "Master  Van 
Tree "  he  said,  and  stopped. 

"You  know  him  well?"  the  Duchess  said,  appealing  to 
him  softly.  We  felt  a  kind  of  sorrow  for  him,  and  some 
delicacy,  too,  about  accusing  one  of  his  countrymen  of  a 
thing  so  cowardly.  "Do  you  think  it  is  possible,"  she  con- 
tinued with  an  effort — "possible  that  he  can  have  done  this, 
Master  Lindstrom?" 

"I  have  known  him  from  a  boy,"  the  merchant  said, 
looking  up,  a  hand  on  either  knee,  and  speaking  with  a 
simplicity  almost  majestic,  "and  never  knew  him  do  a  mean 
thing,  madam.  I  know  no  more  than  that."  And  he 
looked  round  on  us. 

"That  is  a  good  deal;  still,  he  went  off  in  a  fit  of  jeal- 
ousy when  Master  Carey  brought  Dymphna  home.  We 
must  remember  that." 

"Yes,  I  would  he  knew  the  rights  of  that  matter,"  said 
the  Dutchman  heartily. 

"And  he  has  been  hanging  about  the  place  all  day,"  my 
lady  persisted. 

"Yes,"  Master  Lindstrom  rejoined  patiently;  "yet  I  do 
not  think  he  did  this." 

"Then  who  did?"  she  said,  somewhat  nettled. 

That  was  the  question.  I  had  my  opinion,  as  I  saw  Mas- 
ter Bertie  and  the  Duchess  had.  I  did  not  doubt  it  was 
Van  Tree.  Yet  a  thought  struck  me.  "It  might  be  well," 
I  suggested,  "that  some  one  should  ask  Mistress  Anne 
whether  the  door  was  open  when  she  left  the  room.  She 
passed  out  just  in  front  of  me." 


122  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

"But  she  does  not  go  by  the  door,"  my  lady  objected. 

"No,  she  would  turn  at  once  and  go  upstairs,"  I  agreed. 
"But  she  could  see  the  door  from  the  foot  of  the  stairs — if 
she  looked  that  way,  I  mean." 

The  Duchess  assented,  and  went  out  of  the  room  to  put 
the  question.  We  three,  left  together,  sat  staring  at  the 
dull  flame  of  the  lamp,  and  were  for  the  most  part  silent, 
Master  Bertie  only  remarking  that  it  was  after  midnight. 
The  suspicion  he  and  I  entertained  of  Van  Tree's  guilt 
seemed  to  raise  a  barrier  between  us  and  our  host.  My 
wound,  slight  as  it  was,  smarted  and  burned,  and  my  head 
ached.  After  midnight,  was  it?  What  a  day  it  had  been! 

When  the  Duchess  came  back,  as  she  did  in  a  few  min- 
utes, both  Anne  and  Dymphna  came  with  her.  The  girls 
had  risen  hastily,  and  were  shivering  with  cold  and  alarm. 
Their  eyes  were  bright,  their  manner  was  excited.  They 
were  full  of  sympathy  and  horror  and  wonder,  as  was 
natural ;  of  nervous  fear  for  themselves,  too.  But  my  lady 
cut  short  their  exclamations.  "Anne  says  she  did  not 
notice  the  door,"  she  said. 

"No,"  the  girl  answered,  trembling  visibly  as  she  spoke. 
"I  went  up  straight  to  bed.  But  who  could  it  be?  Did 
you  see  nothing  of  him  as  he  struck  you?  Not  a  feature? 
Not  an  outline?" 

"No,"  I  murmured. 

"Did  he  not  say  a  word?"  she  continued,  with  strange 
insistence.  "Was  he  tall  or  short?"  Her  dark  eyes  dwell- 
ing on  mine  seemed  to  probe  my  thoughts,  as  though  they 
challenged  me  to  keep  anything  back  from  her.  "Was  it 
the  man  you  hurt  this  morning?"  she  suggested. 

"No,"  I  answered  reluctantly.     "This  man  was  short." 

"Short,  was  he?     Was  it  Master  Van  Tree,  then?" 

We,  who  felt  also  certain  that  it  was  Van  Tree,  started, 
nevertheless,  at  hearing  the  charge  put  into  words  before 
Dymphna.  I  wondered,  and  I  think  the  others  did,  too, 
at  Mistress  Anne's  harshness.  Even  my  lady,  so  blunt  and 
outspoken  by  nature,  had  shrunk  from  trying  to  question 
the  Dutch  girl  about  her  lover.  We  looked  at  Dymphna, 
wondering  how  she  would  take  it. 

We  had  forgotten  that  she  could  not  understand  English. 
But  this  did  not  serve  her;  for  without  a  pause  Mistress 
Anne  turned  to  her,  and  unfalteringly  said  something  in  her 


A  FOUL  BLOW.  123 

scanty  Dutch  which  came  to  the  same  thing.  A  word  or  two 
of  questioning  and  explanation  followed.  Then  the  mean- 
ing of  the  accusation  dawned  at  last  on  Dymphna's  mind. 
I  looked  for  an  outburst  of  tears  or  protestations.  Instead, 
with  a  glance  of  wonder  and  great  scorn,  with  a  single  indig- 
nant widening  of  her  beautiful  eyes,  she  replied  by  a  curt 
Dutch  sentence. 

"What  does  she  say?"  my  lady  exclaimed  eagerly. 

"She  says,"  replied  Master  Lindstrom,  who  was  looking 
on  gravely,  "that  it  is  a  base  lie,  madam." 

On  that  we  became  spectators.  It  seemed  to  me,  and  I 
think  to  all  of  us,  that  the  two  girls  stood  apart  from  us  in 
a  circle  of  light  by  themselves  ;  confronting  one  another 
with  sharp  glances  as  though  a  curtain  had  been  raised  from 
between  them,  and  they  saw  one  another  in  their  true  colors 
and  recognized  some  natural  antagonism,  or,  it  might  be, 
some  rivalry  each  in  the  other.  I  think  I  was  not  peculiar 
in  feeling  this,  for  we  all  kept  silence  for  a  space  as  though 
expecting  something  to  follow.  In  the  middle  of  this  silence 
there  came  a  low  rapping  at  the  door. 

One  uttered  a  faint  shriek;  another  stood  as  if  turned  to 
stone.  The  Duchess  cried  for  her  child.  The  rest  of  us 
looked  at  one  another.  Midnight  was  past.  Who  could  be 
abroad,  who  could  want  us  at  this  hour?  As  a  rule  we 
should  have  been  in  bed  and  asleep  long  ago.  We  had  no 
neighbors  save  the  cotters  on  the  far  side  of  the  island.  We 
knew  of  no  one  likely  to  arrive  at  this  time  with  any  good 
intent. 

"I  will  open,"  said  Master  Lindstrom.  But  he  looked 
doubtfully  at  the  women-folk  as  he  said  it. 

"One  minute,"  whispered  the  Duchess.  "That  table  is 
solid  and  heavy.  Could  you  not " 

'  'Put  it  across  the  door?"  concluded  her  husband.  '  'Yes, 
we  will."  And  it  was  done  at  once,  the  two  men — my  lady 
would  not  let  me  help — so  arranging  it  that  it  prevented  the 
door  being  opened  to  its  full  width. 

"That  will  stop  a  rush,"  said  Master  Bertie  with  satisfac- 
tion. 

It  did  strengthen  the  position,  yet  it  was  a  nervous  mo- 
ment when  our  host  prepared  to  lower  the  bar.  "Who  is 
there?"  he  cried  loudly. 

We  waited,  listening  and  looking  at  one  another,  the  fear 


124  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

of  arrest  and  the  horrors  of  the  Inquisition  looming  large  in 
the  minds  of  some  of  us  at  least.  The  answer,  when  it 
came,  did  not  reassure  us.  It  was  uttered  in  a  voice  so  low 
and  muffled  that  we  gained  no  information,  and  rather 
augured  treachery  the  more.  I  remember  noticing  how 
each  took  the  crisis;  how  Mistress  Anne's  face  was  set 
hard,  and  her  breath  came  in  jerks;  how  Dymphna,  pale 
and  trembling,  seemed  yet  to  have  eyes  only  for  her  father; 
how  the  Duchess  faced  the  entrance  like  a  queen  at  bay. 
All  this  I  took  in  at  a  glance.  Then  my  gaze  returned  to 
Master  Lindstrom,  as  he  dropped  the  bar  with  a  jerk.  The 
door  was  pushed  open  at  once  as  far  as  it  would  go.  A 
draught  of  cold  air  came  in,  and  with  it  Van  Tree.  He 
shut  the  door  behind  him. 

Never  were  six  people  so  taken  aback  as  we  were.  But 
the  newcomer,  whose  face  was  flushed  with  haste  and  ex- 
citement, observed  nothing.  Apparently  he  saw  nothing 
unexpected  even  in  our  presence  downstairs  at  that  hour, 
nothing  hostile  or  questioning  in  the  half  circle  of  aston- 
ished faces  turned  toward  him.  On  the  contrary,  he  seemed 
pleased.  "Ah!"  he  exclaimed  gutturally.  "It  is  well! 
You  are  up!  You  have  taken  the  alarm!" 

It  was  to  me  he  spoke,  and  I  was  so  surprised  by  that, 
and  by  his  sudden  appearance,  so  dumfounded  by  his  easy 
address  and  the  absence  of  all  self-consciousness  on  his 
part,  so  struck  by  a  change  in  him,  that  I  stared  in  silence. 
I  could  not  believe  that  this  was  the  same  half-shy,  half- 
fierce  young  man  who  had  flung  away  a  few  hours  before  in 
a  passion  of  jealousy.  My  theory  that  he  was  the  assassin 
seemed  on  a  sudden  extravagant,  though  here  he  was  on 
the  spot.  When  Master  Lindstrom  asked,  "Alarm!  What 
alarm?"  I  listened  for  his  answer  as  I  should  have  listened 
for  the  answer  of  a  friend  and  ally,  without  hesitation,  with- 
out distrust.  For  in  truth  the  man  was  transfigured; 
changed  by  the  rise  of  something  to  the  surface  which 
ordinarily  lay  hid  in  him.  Before,  he  had  seemed  churlish, 
awkward,  a  boor.  But  in  this  hour  of  our  need  and  of  his 
opportunity  he  showed  himself  as  he  was.  Action  and  pur- 
pose lifted  him  above  his  outward  seeming.  I  caught  the 
generous  sparkle  in  his  eye,  and  trusted  him. 

"What!"  he  said,  keeping  his  voice  low.     "You  do  not 


A  FOUL  BLOW.  125 

know?  They  are  coming  to  arrest  you.  Their  plan  is  to 
surround  the  house  before  daybreak.  Already  there  is  a 
boat  lying  in  the  river  watching  the  landing-stage." 

"Whom  are  they  coming  to  arrest?"  I  asked.  The  oth- 
ers were  silent,  looking  at  this  strange  messenger  with 
mingled  feelings. 

"All,  I  fear,"  he  replied.  "You,  too,  Master  Lind- 
strom.  Some  one  has  traced  your  English  friends  hither 
and  informed  against  you.  I  know  not  on  what  ground  you 
are  included,  but  I  fear  the  worst.  There  is  not  a  moment 
to  be  lost  if  you  would  escape  by  the  bridge,  before  the 
troop  who  are  on  the  way  to  guard  it  arrives." 

"The  landing-stage,  you  say,  is  already  watched?"  our 
host  asked,  his  phlegmatic  coolness  showing  at  its  best. 
His  eyes  roved  round  the  room,  and  he  tugged,  as  was  his 
habit  when  deep  in  thought,  at  his  beard.  I  felt  sure  that 
he  was  calculating  which  of  his  possessions  he  could  remove. 

"Yes,"  Van  Tree  answered.  "My  father  got  wind  of  the 
plan  in  Arnheim.  An  English  envoy  arrived  there  yester- 
day on  his  way  to  Cleves  or  some  part  of  Germany.  It  is 
rumored  that  he  has  come  out  of  his  road  to  inquire  after 
certain  English  fugitives  whom  his  Government  are  anxious 
to  seize.  But  come,  we  have  no  time  to  lose!  Let  us  go!" 

"Do  you  come  too?"  Master  Lindstrom  said,  pausing  in 
the  act  of  turning  away.  He  spoke  in  Dutch,  but  by  some 
inspiration  born  of  sympathy  I  understood  both  his  ques- 
tion and  the  answer. 

"Yes,  I  come.  Where  Dymphna  goes  I  go,  and  where 
she  stops  I  stop,  though  it  be  at  Madrid  itself,"  the  young 
man  answered  gallantly.  His  eyes  kindled,  and  he  seemed 
to  grow  taller  and  to  gain  majesty.  The  barrier  of  race, 
which  had  hindered  me  from  viewing  him  fairly  before,  fell 
in  a  trice.  I  felt  now  only  a  kindly  sorrow  that  he  had  done 
this  noble  thing,  and  not  I.  I  went  to  him  and  grasped  his 
hand;  and  though  I  said  nothing,  he  seemed,  after  a  single 
start  of  surprise,  to  understand  me  fully.  He  understood 
me  even  better,  if  that  were  possible,  an  hour  later,  when 
Dymphna  had  told  him  of  her  adventure  with  the  Span- 
iard, and  he  came  to  me  to  thank  me. 

Ordered  myself  to  be  idle,  I  found  all  busy  round  me, 
busy  with  a  stealthy  diligence.  Master  Lindstrom  was 
packing  his  plate.  Dymphna,  pale,  but  with  soft,  happy 


I26  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

eyes — for  had  she  not  cause  to  be  proud? — was  preparing 
food  and  thick  clothing.  The  Duchess  had  fetched  her 
child  and  was  dressing  it  for  the  journey.  Master  Bertie 
was  collecting  small  matters,  and  looking  to  our  arms.  In 
one  or  other  of  these  occupations — I  can  guess  in  which — 
Van  Tree  was  giving  his  aid.  And  so,  since  the  Duchess 
would  not  let  me  do  anything,  it  chanced  that  presently  I 
found  myself  left  alone  for  a  few  minutes  with  Anne. 

I  was  not  watching  her.  I  was  gnawing  my  nails  in  a 
fit  of  despondency,  reflecting  that  I  was  nothing  but  a 
hindrance  and  a  drawback  to  my  friends,  since  whenever 
a  move  had  to  be  made  I  was  sure  to  be  invalided,  when  I 
became  aware,  through  some  mysterious  sense,  that  my 
companion,  who  was  kneeling  on  the  floor  behind  me,  pack- 
ing, had  desisted  from  her  work  and  was  gazing  fixedly  at 
me.  1  turned.  Yes,  she  was  looking  at  me;  her  eyes,  in 
which  a  smoldering  fire  seemed  to  burn,  contrasting  vividly 
with  her  pale  face  and  contracted  brows.  When  she  saw 
that  I  had  turned — of  which  at  first  she  did  not  seem  aware 
— she  rose  and  came  to  me,  and  laid  a  hand  on  my  shoulder 
and  leaned  over  me.  A  feeling  that  was  very  like  fright  fell 
upon  me,  her  manner  was  so  strange.  "What  is  it?"  I 
stammered,  as  she  still  pored  on  me  in  silence,  still  main- 
tained her  attitude.  "What  is  the  matter,  Anne?" 

"Are  you  quite  a  fool?"  she  whispered,  her  voice  almost 
a  hiss,  her  hot  breath  on  my  cheek.  "Have  you  no  sense 
left,  that  you  trust  that  man?" 

For  a  moment  I  failed  to  understand  her.  "What 
man?"  I  said.  "Oh,  Van  Tree!" 

"Ay,  Van  Tree!  Who  else?  Will  you  go  straight  into 
the  trap  he  has  laid  for  you?"  She  moistened  her  lips  with 
her  tongue,  as  though  they  were  parched.  "You  are  all 
mad!  Mad,  I  think!  Don't  you  see,"  she  continued, 
stooping  over  me  again  and  whispering  hurriedly,  her  wild 
eyes  close  to  mine,  "that  he  is  jealous  of  you?" 

"He  was,"  I  said  uneasily.     "That  is  all  right  now." 

"He  was?  He  is!"  she  retorted.  "He  went  away  wild 
with  you.  He  comes  back  smiling  and  holding  out  his  hand. 
Do  you  trust  him?  Don't  you  see — don't  you  see,"  she 
cried,  rocking  me  to  and  fro  with  her  hand  in  her  excite- 
ment, "that  he  is  fooling  you?  He  is  leading  us  all  into  a 
trap  that  has  been  laid  carefully  enough.  What  is  this  tale 


A  FOUL  BLOW.  127 

of  an  English  envoy  on  his  way  to  Germany?     Rubbish! 
Rubbish,  I  tell  you." 

"But  Clarence " 

"Bah!  It  was  all  your  fancy!"  she  cried  fiercely,  her 
eyes  for  the  moment  flitting  to  the  door,  then  returning  to 
my  face.  "How  should  he  find  us  here?  Or  what  has  Clar- 
ence to  do  with  an  English  envoy?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  I  said.  She  had  not  in  the  least  per- 
suaded me.  In  a  rare  moment  I  had  seen  into  Van  Tree's 
soul  and  trusted  him  implicitly.  "Please  take  care,"  I 
added,  wincing  under  her  hand.  "You  hurt  me!" 

She  sprang  back  with  a  sudden  change  of  countenance  as 
if  I  had  struck  her,  and  for  a  moment  cowered  away  from 
me,  her  former  passion  still  apparent  fighting  for  the  mas- 
tery in  her  face.  I  set  down  her  condition  to  terror  at  the 
plight  we  were  all  in,  or  to  vexation  that  no  one  would  take 
her  view.  The  next  moment  I  went  farther.  I  thought  her 
mad,  when  she  turned  abruptly  from  me  and,  flying  to  the 
door  by  which  Van  Tree  had  entered,  began  with  trembling 
fingers  to  release  the  pin  which  confined  the  bar. 

"Stop!  stop!  you  will  ruin  all!"  I  cried  in  horror. 
"They  can  see  that  door  from  the  river,  and  if  they  see  the 
light,  they  will  know  we  are  up  and  have  taken  the  alarm ; 
and  they  may  make  a  dash  to  secure  us.  Stop,  Anne! 
Stop!"  I  cried.  But  the  girl  was  deaf.  She  tugged  des- 
perately at  the  pin,  and  had  already  loosened  the  bar  when 
I  caught  her  by  the  arms,  and,  pushing  her  away,  set  my 
back  against  the  door.  "Don't  be  foolish!"  I  said  gently. 
"You  have  lost  your  head.  You  must  let  us  men  settle 
these  things,  Anne." 

She  was  indeed  beside  herself,  for  she  faced  me  during 
a  second  or  two  as  though  she  would  spring  upon  me  and 
tear  me  from  the  door.  Her  hands  worked,  her  eyes 
gleamed,  her  strong  white  teeth  showed  themselves.  I 
shuddered.  I  had  never  pictured  her  looking  like  that. 
Then,  as  steps  sounded  on  the  stairs  and  cheerful  voices — 
cheerful  they  seemed  to  me  as  they  broke  in  on  that  strange 
scene — drew  nearer,  she  turned,  and  walking  deliberately 
to  a  seat,  fell  to  weeping  hysterically. 

"What  are  you  doing  to  that  door?"  cried  the  Duchess 
sharply,  as  she  entered  with  the  others.  I  was  securing  the 
bar  again. 


128  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

"Nothing,"  I  said  stolidly.     "I  am  seeing  that  it  is  fast." 

"And  hoity  toity,  miss!"  she  continued,  turning  to  Anne. 
"What  has  come  over  you,  I  would  like  to  know?  Stop 
crying,  girl;  what  is  the  matter  with  you?  Will  you  shame 
us  all  before  this  Dutch  maid?  Here,  carry  these  things  to 
the  back  door." 

Anne  somehow  stifled  her  sobs  and  rose.  Seeming  by  a 
great  effort  to  recover  composure,  she  went  out,  keeping 
her  face  to  the  last  averted  from  me. 

We  all  followed,  variously  laden,  Master  Lindstrom  and 
Van  Tree,  who  carried  between  them  the  plate-chest,  being 
the  last  to  leave.  There  was  not  one  of  us — even  of  us 
who  had  only  known  the  house  a  few  weeks — who  did  not 
heave  a  sigh  as  we  passed  out  of  the  warm  lamp-lit  parlor, 
which,  littered  as  it  was  with  the  debris  of  packing,  looked 
still  pleasant  and  comfortable  in  comparison  with  the  dark- 
ness outside  and  the  uncertain  future  before  us.  What, 
then,  must  have  been  the  pain  of  parting  to  those  who  had 
never  known  any  other  home?  Yet  they  took  it  bravely. 
To  Dymphna,  Van  Tree's  return  had  brought  great  happi- 
ness. To  Master  Lindstrom,  any  ending  to  a  long  series  of 
anxieties  and  humiliations  was  welcome.  To  Van  Tree — 
well,  he  had  Dymphna  with  him,  and  his  side  of  the  plate- 
chest  was  heavy,  and  gave  him  ample  employment. 

We  passed  out  silently  through  the  back  door,  leaving  the 
young  Dutchman  to  lock  it  behind  us,  and  flitted,  a  line  of 
gliding  shadows,  through  the  orchard.  It  was  two  o'clock, 
the  sky  was  overcast,  a  slight  drizzle  was  falling.  Once 
an  alarm  was  given  that  we  were  being  followed ;  and  we 
huddled  together,  and  stood  breathless,  a  clump  of  dark 
figures  gazing  affrightedly  at  the  tree  trunks  which  sur- 
rounded us,  and  which  seemed — at  least  to  the  women's 
eyes — to  be  moving,  and  to  be  men  closing  in  on  us.  But 
the  alarm  was  groundless,  and  with  no  greater  mishap  than 
a  few  stumbles  when  we  came  to  the  slippery  edge  of  the 
creek,  we  reached  the  boat,  and  one  by  one,  admirably 
ordered  by  our  host,  got  in  and  took  our  seats.  Van  Tree 
and  Master  Lindstrom  pushed  us  off;  then  they  swung 
themselves  in  and  paddled  warily  along,  close  under  the 
bank,  where  the  shadows  of  the  poplars  fell  across  us,  and  our 
figures  blended  darkly  with  the  line  of  rushes  on  the  shore. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

ANN  E*S      PETITION. 

WE  coasted  along  in  this  silent  fashion,  nearly  as  far  as 
the  hamlet  and  bridge,  following,  but  farther  inshore, 
the  course  which  Master  Lindstrom  and  I  had  taken  when 
on  our  way  to  bury  the  Spaniard.  A  certain  point  gained, 
at  a  signal  from  our  host  we  struck  out  into  the  open,  and 
rowed  swiftly  toward  the  edge  of  the  marsh.  This  was  the 
critical  moment;  but,  so  far  as  we  could  learn,  our  passage 
was  unnoticed.  We  reached  the  fringe  of  rushes;  with  a 
prolonged  hissing  sound  the  boat  pushed  through  them;  a 
flight  of  water-fowl  rose,  whirring  and  clapping  about  us, 
and  we  floated  out  into  a  dim  misty  lake,  whose  shores  and 
surface  stretched  away  on  every  side,  alike  dark,  shifting, 
and  uncertain. 

Across  this  the  Dutchman  steered  us,  bringing  us  pres- 
ently to  a  narrow  opening,  through  which  we  glided  into  a 
second  and  smaller  mere.  At  the  farther  end  of  this  one 
the  way  seemed  barred  by  a  black,  impenetrable  wall  of 
rushes,  which  rose  far  above  our  heads.  But  the  tall  stems 
bent  slowly  with  many  a  whispered  protest  before  our  silent 
onset,  and  we  slid  into  a  deep  water-lane,  here  narrow, 
there  widening  into  a  pool,  in  one  place  dark,  in  another 
reflecting  the  gray  night  sky.  Down  this  we  sped  swiftly, 
the  sullen  plash  of  the  oars  and  the  walls  of  rushes  always 
with  us.  For  ourselves,  we  crouched  still  and  silent,  shiv- 
ering and  listening  for  sounds  of  pursuit;  now  starting  at 
the  splash  of  a  frog,  again  shuddering  at  the  cry  of  a  night- 
bird.  The  Duchess,  her  child,  and  I  were  in  the  bows, 
Master  Lindstrom,  his  daughter,  and  Mistress  Anne  in  the 
stern.  They  had  made  me  comfortable  with  the  baggage 
and  some  warm  coverings,  and  would  insist  on  treating  me  as 
helpless.  Even  when  the  others  began  to  talk  in  whispers, 
the  Duchess  enjoined  silence  on  me,  and  bade  me  sleep. 
Presently  I  did  so,  my  last  impression  one  of  unending 
water-ways  and  shoreless,  shadowy  lakes. 

When  I  awoke  the  sun  was  high  and  the  scene  was 
changed  indeed.  We  lay  on  the  bosom  of  a  broad  river, 
our  boat  seeming  now  to  stand  still  as  the  sail  flapped  idly, 


13°  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

now  to  heel  over  and  shoot  forward  as  the  light  breeze 
struck  us.  The  shores  abreast  of  us  were  still  low  and 
reedy,  but  ahead  the  slopes  of  green  wooded  hills  rose 
gently  from  the  stream.  Master  Bertie  was  steering,  and, 
seeing  me  lift  my  head,  greeted  me  with  a  smile.  The 
girls  in  the  stern  were  covered  up  and  asleep.  Amidships, 
too,  Master  Lindstrom  and  Van  Tree  had  curled  themselves 
up  between  the  thwarts,  and  were  slumbering  peacefully. 
1  turned  to  look  for  the  Duchess,  and  found  her  sitting  wide 
awake  at  my  elbow,  her  eyes  on  her  husband. 

"Well,"  she  said  smiling,  "do  you  feel  better  now? 
You  have  had  a  good  sleep." 

"How  long  have  I  been  asleep,  please?"  I  asked,  bewil- 
dered by  the  sunshine,  by  the  shining  river  and  the  green 
hills,  by  the  fresh  morning  air,  by  the  change  in  every- 
thing; and  answering  in  a  question,  as  people  freshly 
aroused  do  nine  times  out  of  ten.  "Where  are  we?" 

"You  have  been  asleep  nearly  six  hours,  and  we  are  on 
the  Rhine,  near  Emmerich,"  she  answered,  smiling.  She 
was  pale,  and  the  long  hours  of  watching  had  drawn  dark 
circles  round  her  eyes.  But  the  old  undaunted  courage 
shone  in  them  still,  and  her  smile  was  as  sweet  as  ever. 

"Have  we  passed  the  frontier?"   I  asked  eagerly. 

"Well,  nearly,"  she  answered.  "But  how  does  your 
wound  feel?" 

"Rather  stiff  and  sore,"  I  said  ruefully,  after  making  an 
experiment  by  moving  my  body  to  and  fro.  "And  I  am 
very  thirsty,  but  I  could  steer." 

"So  you  shall,"  she  said.  "Only  first  eat  something. 
We  broke  our  fast  before  the  others  lay  down.  There  is 
bread  and  meat  behind  you,  and  some  hollands  and  water 
in  the  bottle." 

I  seized  the  latter  and  drank  greedily.  Then,  finding 
myself  hungry  now  I  came  to  think  about  it,  I  fell  upon  the 
eatables. 

''You  will  do  now,  I  think,"  she  said,  when  she  had 
watched  me  for  some  time. 

I  laughed  for  answer,  pleased  that  the  long  dark  night,  its 
gloom  and  treachery  were  past.  But  its  memories  remained 
and  presently  I  said,  "If  Van  Tree  did  not  try  to  kill  me—- 
and I  am  perfectly  sure  he  did  not ' 

"So  am  I,"  she  said.     "We  were  all  wrong." 


ANNE'S  PETITION.  131 

"Then,"  I  continued,  looking  at  her  gravely,  "who  did? 
that  is  the  question.  And  why?" 

"You  are  sure  that  it  was  not  the  Spaniard  whom  you 
hurt  in  defense  of  Dymphna?"  my  lady  asked. 

"Quite  sure." 

"And  sure  that  it  was  not  Clarence?"  she  persisted. 

"Quite  sure.  It  was  a  short  man,"  I  explained  again, 
"and  dressed  in  a  cloak.  That  is  all  I  can  tell  about  him." 

"It  might  be  some  one  employed  by  Clarence,"  she  sug- 
gested, her  face  gloomy,  her  brows  knit. 

"True,  I  had  not  thought  of  that,"  I  answered.  "And 
it  reminds  me.  I  have  heard  so  much  of  Clarence " 

"And  seen  some  little — even  that  little  more  than  was 
good  for  you." 

"Yes,  he  has  had  the  better  of  me,  on  both  occasions," 
I  allowed.  "But  I  was  going  to  ask  you,"  I  continued, 
"to  tell  me  something  about  him.  He  was  your  steward,  I 
know.  But  how  did  he  come  to  you?  How  was  it  you 
trusted  him?" 

"We  are  all  fools  at  times,"  she  answered  grimly.  "We 
wanted  to  have  persons  of  our  own  faith  about  us,  and  he 
was  highly  commended  to  us  by  Protestants  abroad,  as 
having  seen  service  in  the  cause.  He  applied  to  us  just  at 
the  right  moment,  too.  And  at  the  first  we  felt  a  great  lik- 
ing for  him.  He  was  so  clever  in  arranging  things,  he  kept 
such  excellent  order  among  the  servants;  he  was  so  ready, 
so  willing,  so  plausible!  Oh!"  she  added  bitterly,  "he 
had  ways  that  enabled  him  to  twist  nine  women  out  of  ten 
round  his  fingers !  Richard  was  fond  of  him  ;  I  liked  him ; 
we  had  talked  more  than  once  of  how  we  might  advance  his 
interests.  And  then,  like  a  thunderbolt  on  a  clear  day,  the 
knowledge  of  his  double-dealing  fell  upon  us.  We  learned 
that  he  had  been  seen  talking  with  a  known  agent  of  Gar- 
diner, and  this  at  a  time  when  the  Bishop  was  planning  our 
ruin.  We  had  him  watched,  and  just  when  the  net  had  all 
but  closed  round  us  we  discovered  that  he  had  been  through- 
out in  Gardiner's  pay." 

"Ah!"  I  said  viciously.  "The  oddest  thing  to  me  is 
the  way  he  has  twice  escaped  me  when  I  had  him  at  the 
.sword's  point!" 

"The  third  time  may  bring  other  fortune,  Master  Fran- 
cis," she  answered  smiling.  "Yet  be  wary  with  him.  He 


I 3  2  THE  S  TOR  Y  OF  FRA  NCIS  CL  UDDE. 

is  a  good  swordsman,  as  my  husband,  who  sometimes 
fenced  with  him,  will  tell  you." 

"He  can  be  no  common  man,"  I  said. 

"He  is  not.  He  is  well-bred,  and  has  seen  service.  He 
is  at  once  bold  and  cunning.  He  has  a  tongue  would  win 
most  women,  and  a  hardihood  that  would  chain  them  to 
him.  Women  love  bold  men,"  my  lady  added  naively. 
And  she  smiled  on  me — yet  humorously — so  that  I  blushed. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  The  sail  flapped,  then 
filled  again.  How  delicious  this  morning  after  that  night, 
this  bright  expanse  after  the  dark,  sluggish  channels!  Far 
away  in  front  a  great  barge,  high-laden  with  a  mighty  stack 
of  rushes,  crept  along  beside  the  bank,  the  horse  that  drew 
it  covered  by  a  kind  of  knitted  rug.  When  my  lady  spoke 
next,  it  was  abruptly.  "Is  it  Anne?"  she  asked. 

I  knew  quite  well  what  she  meant,  and  blushed  again.  I 
shook  my  head. 

"I  think  it  was  going  to  be,"  she  said  sagely,  "only  Mis- 
tress Dymphna  came  upon  the  scene.  You  have  heard  the 
story  of  the  donkey  halting  betwen  two  bundles  of  hay, 
Master  Francis?  And  in  the  multitude  of  sweethearts  there 
is  safety." 

"I  do  not  think  that  was  my  case,"  I  said.  Instinctively 
my  hand  went  to  my  breast,  in  which  Petronilla's  velvet 
sword-knot  lay  safe  and  warm.  The  Duchess  saw  the  gest- 
ure and  instantly  bent  forward  and  mimicked  it.  "Ha! 
ha!"  she  cried,  leaning  back  with  her  hands  clasped  about 
her  knees,  and  her  eyes  shining  with  fun  and  amusement. 
"Now  I  understand.  You  have  left  her  at  home;  now,  do 
not  deny  it,  or  I  will  tell  the  others.  Be  frank  and  I  will 
keep  your  secret,  on  my  honor." 

"She  is  my  cousin,"  I  said,  my  cheeks  hot. 

"And  her  name?" 

"Petronilla." 

"Petronilla?"  my  lady  repeated  shrewdly.  "That  was 
the  name  of  your  Spanish  grandmother,  then?" 

"Yes,  madam." 

"Petronilla?  Petronilla?"  she  repeated,  stroking  her 
cheek  with  her  hand.  "She  would  be  before  my  time, 
would  she  not?  Yet  there  used  to  be  several  Petronillas 
about  the  court  in  Queen  Catherine  of  Aragon's  days,  I 
remember.  There  was  Petronilla  de  Vargas  for  one.  But 


ANNE  'S  PE  TITION.  133 

there,  I  guess  at  random.  Why  do  you  not  tell  me  more 
about  yourself,  Master  Francis?  Do  you  not  know  me  well 
enough  now?" 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell,  madam,"  I  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"Your  family?     You  come,  I  am  sure,  of  a  good  house." 

"I  did,  but  it  is  nothing  to  me  now.  I  am  cut  off  from 
it.  I  am  building  my  house  afresh.  And,"  I  added  bit- 
terly, "I  have  not  made  much  way  with  it  yet." 

She  broke,  greatly  to  my  surprise,  into  a  long  peal  of 
laughter.  "Oh,  you  vain  boy!"  she  cried.  "You  valiant 
castle-builder!  How  long  have  you  been  about  the  work? 
Three  months?  Do  you  think  a  house  is  to  be  built  in  a 
day?  Three  months,  indeed?  Quite  a  lifetime!" 

Was  it  three  months?  It  seemed  to  me  to  be  fully  three 
years.  I  seemed  to  have  grown  more  than  three  years 
older  since  that  February  morning  when  I  had  crossed 
Arden  Forest  with  the  first  light,  and  looked  down  on 
Wootton  Wawen  sleeping  in  its  vale,  and  roused  the  herons 
fishing  in  the  bottoms. 

"Come,  tell  me  all  about  it!"  she  said  abruptly.  "What 
did  you  do  to  be  cut  off?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you,"  I  answered. 

A  shade  of  annoyance  clouded  her  countenance.  But  it 
passed  away  almost  on  the  instant.  "Very  well,"  she  said, 
with  a  little  nod  of  disdain  and  a  pretty  grimace.  "So  be 
it.  Have  your  own  way.  But  I  prophesy  you  will  come  to 
me  with  your  tale  some  day." 

I  went  then  and  took  Master  Bertie's  place  at  the  tiller; 
and,  he  lying  down,  I  had  the  boat  to  myself  until  noon, 
and  drew  no  little  pleasure  from  the  placid  picture  which 
the  moving  banks  and  the  wide  river  presented.  About 
noon  there  was  a  general  uprising;  and,  coming  immedi- 
ately afterward  to  a  little  island  lying  close  to  one  bank,  we 
all  landed  to  stretch  our  legs  and  refresh  ourselves  after  the 
confinement  on  board. 

"We  are  over  the  border  now  and  close  to  Emmerich," 
said  Master  Lindstrom,  "though  the  mere  line  of  frontier 
will  avail  us  little  if  the  Spanish  soldiers  can  by  hook  or 
crook  lay  hands  on  us!  Therefore,  we  must  lose  no  time 
in  getting  within  the  walls  of  some  town.  We  should  be 
fairly  secure  for  a  few  days  either  in  Wesel  or  Santon." 


134  TITE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

"I  thought  Wesel  was  the  point  we  were  making  for," 
Master  Bertie  said  in  some  surprise. 

"It  was  Wesel  I  mentioned  the  other  day,"  the  Dutch- 
man admitted  frankly.  "And  it  is  the  bigger  town  and  the 
stronger.  But  I  have  more  friends  in  Santon.  To  Wesel 
the  road  from  Emmerich  runs  along  the  right  bank.  To 
Santon  we  go  by  a  cross-country  road,  starting  from  the 
left  bank  opposite  Emmerich,  a  road  longer  and  more 
tedious.  But  we  are  much  less  likely  to  be  followed  that 
way  than  along  the  Wesel  road,  and  on  second  thoughts  I 
incline  to  Santon." 

"But  why  adopt  either  road?  Why  not  go  on  by  river?" 
I  asked. 

"Because  we  should  be  overtaken.  The  wind  is  falling, 
and  the  boat,"  our  late  host  explained,  more  truly  than 
politely,  "with  the  women  in  it  is  heavy." 

"I  understand,"  I  said.  "And  you  feel  sure  we  shall  be 
pursued?" 

For  answer  he  pointed  with  a  smile  to  his  plate-chest. 
"Quite  sure,"  he  added.  "With  that  before  them  they 
will  think  nothing  of  the  frontier.  I  fancy  that  for  you,  if 
the  English  Government  be  in  earnest,  there  will  be  no 
absolutely  safe  place  short  of  the  free  city  of  Frankfort. 
Unless  indeed  you  have  interest  with  the  Duke  of  Cleves. " 

"Ah!"  said  the  Duchess.  And  she  looked  at  her  hus- 
band. 

"Ah!"  said  Master  Bertie,  and  he  looked  very  blankly  at 
his  wife.  So  that  I  did  not  derive  much  comfort  from  that 
suggestion. 

"Then  it  is  Santon,  is  it?"  said  my  lady. 

"That  first,  at  any  rate.  Then,  if  they  follow  us  along 
the  Wesel  road,  we  shall  still  give  them  the  slip." 

So  it  was  settled,  neither  Van  Tree  nor  the  girls  hav- 
ing taken  any  part  in  the  discussion.  The  former  and 
Dymphna  were  talking  aside,  and  Mistress  Anne  was  sitting 
low  down  on  the  bank,  with  her  feet  almost  in  the  water, 
immersed  to  all  appearance  in  her  own  thoughts.  There 
was  a  little  bustle  as  we  rose  to  get  into  the  boat,  which  we 
had  drawn  up  on  the  landward  side  of  the  island  so  as  to  be 
invisible  from  the  main  channel ;  and  in  the  middle  of  this 
I  was  standing  with  one  foot  in  the  boat  and  one  on  shore, 
taking  from  Anne  various  articles  which  we  had  landed  for 


ANNE 'S  PE  TITION.  1 35 

rearrangement,  when  she  whispered  to  me  that  she  wanted 
to  speak  to  me  alone. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something,"  she  said,  raising  her  eyes 
to  my  face,  and  then  averting  them.  "Follow  me  this 
way. ' ' 

She  strolled,  as  if  accidentally,  twenty  or  thirty  paces  along 
the  bank;  and  in  a  minute  I  joined  her.  I  found  her  gaz- 
ing down  the  river  in  the  direction  from  which  we  had 
come.  "What  is  it?"  I  said  anxiously.  "You  do  not  see 
anything,  do  you?"  For  there  had  been  a  hint  of  bad  news 
in  her  voice. 

She  dropped  the  hand  with  which  she  had  been  shading 
her  eyes  and  turned  to  me.  "Master  Francis,  you  will  not 
think  me  very  foolish?"  she  said.  Then  I  perceived  that 
her  lip  was  quivering  and  that  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 
They  were  very  beautiful  eyes  when,  as  now,  they  grew 
soft,  and  appeal  took  the  place  of  challenge. 

"What  is  it?"  I  replied,  speaking  cheerfully  to  reassure 
her.  She  had  scarcely  got  over  her  terror  of  last  night. 
She  trembled  as  she  stood. 

"It  is  about  Santon,"  she  answered  with  a  miserable  little 
catch  in  her  voice.  "I  am  so  afraid  of  going  there!  Master 
Lindstrom  says  it  is  a  rough,  long  road,  and  when  we  are 
there  we  are  not  a  bit  farther  from  those  wretches  than  at 
Wesel,  and — and " 

"There,  there!"  I  said.  She  was  on  the  point  of  burst- 
ing into  tears,  and  was  clearly  much  overwrought.  "You  are 
making  the  worst  of  it.  If  it  were  not  for  Master  Lind- 
strom I  should  be  inclined  to  choose  Wesel  myself.  But  he 
ought  to  know  best." 

"But  that  is  not  all,"  she  said,  clasping  her  hands  and 
looking  up  at  me  with  her  face  grown  full  of  solemn  awe; 
"I  have  had  a  dream." 

"Well,  but  dreams "  I  objected. 

"You  do  not  believe  in  dreams?"  she  said,  dropping  her 
head  sorrowfully. 

"No,  no;  I  do  not  say  that,"  I  admitted,  naturally 
startled.  "But  what  was  your  dream?" 

"I  thought  we  took  the  road  to  Santon.  And  mind," 
she  added  earnestly,  "this  was  before  Master  Lindstrom 
had  uttered  a  word  about  going  that  way,  or  any  other  way 
save  to  Wesel.  I  dreamt  that  we  followed  the  road  through 


136  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

such  a  dreadful  flat  country,  a  country  all  woods  and  deso- 
late moorland,  under  a  gray   sky,  and   in   torrents  of  rain, 

"Well,  well?"  I  said,  with  a  passing  shiver  at  the  picture. 
She  described  it  with  a  rapt,  absent  air,  which  made  me 
creep — as  if  even  now  she  were  seeing  something  un- 
canny. 

"And  then  I  thought  that  in  the  middle  of  these  woods, 
about  half-way  to  Santon,  they  overtook  us,  and  there  was  a 
great  fight." 

"There  would  be  sure  to  be  that!"  I  muttered,  with 
shut  teeth. 

"And  I  thought  you  were  killed,  and  we  women  were 
dragged  back!  There,  I  cannot  tell  you  the  rest!"  she 
added  wildly.  "But  try,  try  to  get  them  to  go  the  old  way. 
If  not,  I  know  evil  will  come  of  it.  Promise  me  to  try?" 

"I  will  tell  them  your  dream,"  I  said. 

"No,  no!"  she  exclaimed  still  more  vehemently.  "They 
would  only  laugh.  Madam  does  not  believe  in  dreams. 
But  they  will  listen  to  you  if  you  say  you  think  the  other 
way  better.  Promise  me  you  will!  Promise  me!"  she 
pleaded,  her  hands  clasping  my  arm,  and  her  tearful  eyes 
looking  up  to  mine. 

"Well,"  I  agreed  reluctantly,  "I  will  try.  After  all,  the 
shortest  way  may  be  the  best.  But  if  I  do,"  I  said  kindly, 
"you  must  promise  me  in  return  not  to  be  alarmed  any 
longer,  Anne." 

"I  will  try,"  she  said  gratefully;  "I  will  indeed,  Francis." 

We  were  summoned  at  that  minute,  for  the  boat  was 
waiting  for  us.  The  Duchess  scanned  us  rather  curiously 
as  we  ran  up — we  were  the  last.  But  Anne  kept  her  word, 
»vnd  concealed  her  fears  so  bravely  that,  as  she  jumped  in 
from  the  bank,  her  air  of  gayety  almost  deceived  me,  and 
would  have  misled  the  sharpest-sighted  person  who  had  not 
been  present  at  our  interview,  so  admirably  was  it  assumed. 

We  calculated  that  our  pursuers  would  not  follow  us  down 
the  river  for  some  hours.  They  would  first  have  to  search 
the  island,  and  the  watch  which  they  had  set  on  the  land- 
ing-stage would  lead  them  to  suspect  rather  that  we  had  fled 
by  land.  We  hoped,  therefore,  to  reach  Emmerich  unmo- 
lested. There  Master  Lindstrom  said  we  could  get  horses, 


ANNE 'S  PE  TITION.  1 3  ^ 

and  he  thought  we  might  be  safe  in  Santon  by  the  following 
evening. 

"If  you  really  think  we  had  better  go  to  Santon,"  I  said. 
This  was  an  hour  or  two  after  leaving  the  island,  and  when 
we  looked  to  sight  Emmerich  very  soon,  the  hills  which  we 
had  seen  in  front  all  day,  and  which  were  grateful  to  eyes 
sated  with  the  monotony  of  Holland,  being  now  pretty  close 
to  us. 

"I  thought  that  we  had  settled  that,"  replied  the  Dutch- 
man promptly. 

I  felt  they  were  all  looking  at  me.  "I  look  at  it  this 
way,"  I  said,  reddening.  "Wesel  is  not  far  from  Emmerich 
by  the  road.  Should  we  not  have  an  excellent  chance  of 
reaching  it  before  our  pursuers  come  up?" 

"You  might  reach  it,"  Master  Lindstrom  said  gravely. 
"Though,  again,  you  might  not." 

"And,  Wesel  once  reached,"  I  persisted,  "there  is  less 
fear  of  violence  being  attempted  there  than  in  Santon.  It 
is  a  larger  town." 

"True,"  he  admitted.  "But  it  is  just  this.  Will  you  be 
able  to  reach  Wesel?  It  is  the  getting  there — that  is  the 
difficulty;  the  getting  there  before  you  are  caught." 

"If  we  have  a  good  start,  why  should  we  not?"  I  urged; 
and  urged  it  the  more  persistently,  the  more  I  found  them 
opposed  to  it.  Naturally  there  ensued  a  warm  discussion. 
At  first  they  all  sided  against  me,  save  of  course  Anne,  and 
she  sat  silent,  though  she  was  visibly  agitated,  as  from  min- 
ute to  minute  I  or  they  seemed  likely  to  prevail.  But  pres- 
ently when  I  grew  warmer,  and  urged  again  and  again  the 
strength  of  Wesel,  my  own  party  veered  round,  yet  still  with 
doubt  and  misgiving.  The  Dutchman  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders to  the  end  and  remained  unpersuaded.  But  finally  it 
was  decided  that  I  should  have  my  own  way.  We  would 
go  to  Wesel. 

Every  one  knows  how  a  man  feels  when  he  comes  vic- 
torious out  of  such  a  battle.  He  begins  on  the  instant  to 
regret  his  victory,  and  to  see  the  possible  evils  which  may 
result  from  it ;  to  repent  the  hot  words  he  has  used  in  the 
strife  and  the  declarations  he  has  flung  broadcast.  That 
dreadful  phrase,  "I  told  you  so!"  rises  like  an  avenging 
fury  before  his  fancy,  and  he  quails. 


138  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

I  felt  all  this  the  moment  the  thing  was  settled.  But  I 
was  too  young  to  back  out  and  withdraw  my  words.  I 
hoped  for  the  best,  and  resolved  inwardly  to  get  the  party 
mounted  the  moment  we  reached  Emmerich. 

I  soon  had  the  opportunity  of  proving  this  resolution  to 
be  more  easily  made  than  carried  out.  About  three  o'clock 
we  reached  the  little  town  dominated,  as  we  saw  from  afar, 
by  an  ancient  minster,  and,  preferring  not  to  enter  it,  landed 
at  the  steps  of  an  inn  a  quarter  of  a  mile  short  of  the  gates, 
and  marking  a  point  where  we  might  take  the  road  to  Wesel, 
or,  crossing  the  river,  the  road  to  Santon.  Master  Lind- 
strom  seemed  well  known,  but  there  were  difficulties  about 
the  horses.  The  German  landlord  listened  to  his  story  with 
apparent  sympathy — but  no  horses!  We  could  not  under- 
stand the  tongue  in  which  the  two  talked,  but  the  Dutch- 
man's questions,  quick  and  animated  for  once,  and  the 
landlord's  slow  replies,  reminded  me  of  the  foggy  morning 
when  in  a  similar  plight  we  had  urged  the  master  of  the 
Lions  Whelp  to  put  to  sea.  And  I  feared  a  similar  result. 

"He  says  he  cannot  get  so  many  horses  to-night,"  said 
Master  Lindstrom  with  a  long  face. 

"Offer  him  more  money!"  quoth  the  Duchess. 

"If  we  cannot  have  horses  until  the  morning,  we  may  as 
well  go  on  in  the  boat,"  I  urged. 

"He  says,  too,  that  the  water  is  out  on  the  road,"  con- 
tinued the  Dutchman. 

"Nonsense!  Double  the  price!"  cried  my  lady»impa- 
tiently. 

I  suppose  that  this  turned  the  scale.  The  landlord 
finally  promised  that  in  an  hour  four  saddle-horses  for  Mas- 
ter Bertie  and  the  Duchess,  Anne  and  myself,  should  be 
ready,  with  a  couple  of  pack-horses  and  a  guide.  Master 
Lindstrom,  his  daughter,  and  Van  Tree  would  start  a  little 
later  for  Cleves,  five  miles  on  the  road  to  Santon,  if  convey- 
ance could  be  got.  "And  if  not,"  our  late  host  added,  as 
we  said  something  about  our  unwillingness  to  leave  him  in 
danger,  "I  shall  be  safe  enough  in  the  town,  but  I  hope  to 
sleep  in  Cleves." 

It  was  all  settled  very  hastily.  We  felt — and  I  in  particu- 
lar, since  my  plan  had  been  adopted — an  unreasonable  impa- 
tience to  be  off.  As  we  stood  on  the  bank  by  the  inn-door, 
we  had  a  straight  reach  of  river  a  mile  long  in  full  view 


ANNE 'S  PE TITION.  139 

below  us ;  and  now  we  were  no  longer  moving  ourselves, 
but  standing  still,  expected  each  minute  to  see  the  Spanish 
boat,  with  its  crew  of  desperadoes,  sweep  round  the  corner 
before  our  eyes.  Master  Lindstrom  assured  us  that  if  we 
were  once  out  of  sight  our  pursuers  would  get  no  information 
as  to  the  road  we  had  taken,  either  from  the  inn-keeper  or  his 
neighbors.  "There  is  no  love  lost  between  them  and  the 
Spaniards,"  he  said  shrewdly.  "And  I  know  the  people 
here,  and  they  know  me.  The  burghers  may  not  be  very 
keen  to  come  to  blows  with  the  Spaniards  or  to  resent  their 
foray.  But  the  latter,  on  their  part,  will  be  careful  not  to 
go  too  far  or  to  make  themselves  obnoxious." 

We  took  the  opportunity  of  supping  then,  not  knowing 
when  we  might  get  food  again.  I  happened  to  finish  first, 
and,  hearing  the  horses'  hoofs,  went  out  and  watched  the 
lads  who  were  to  be  our  guides  fastening  the  baggage  on  the 
sumpter  beasts.  I  gave  them  a  hand — not  without  a  wince 
or  two,  for  the  wound  in  my  chest  was  painful — and  while 
doing  so  had  a  flash  of  remembrance.  I  went  to  the  un- 
glazed  window  of  the  kitchen  in  which  the  others  sat,  and 
leaned  my  elbows  on  the  sill.  "I  say!"  I  said,  full  of  my 
discovery,  "there  is  something  we  have  forgotten!" 

"What?"  asked  the  Duchess,  rising  and  coming  toward 
me,  while  the  others  paused  in  their  meal  to  listen. 

"The  letter  to  Mistress  Clarence,"  I  answered.  "I  was 
going  to  get  it  when  I  was  stabbed,  you  remember,  and 
afterward  we  forgot  all  about  it.  Now  it  is  too  late.  It 
has  been  left  behind." 

She  did  not  answer  then,  but  came  out  to  me,  and  turned 
with  me  to  look  at  the  horses.  "This  comes  of  your  fool- 
ish scruples,  Master  Francis!"  she  said  severely.  "Where 
was  it?" 

"I  slipped  it  between  the  leathers  of  the  old  haversack 
you  gave  me,"  I  answered,  "which  I  used  to  have  for  a 
pillow.  Van  Tree  brought  my  things  down,  but  overlooked 
the  haversack,  I  suppose.  At  any  rate,  it  is  not  here." 

"Well,  it  is  no  good  crying  over  spilt  milk,"  she  said. 

She  called  the  others  out  then,  and  there  was  no  mistaking 
Mistress  Anne's  pleasure  at  escaping  the  Santon  road.  She 
was  radiant,  and  vouchsafed  me  a  very  pretty  glance  of 
thanks,  in  which  her  relief  as  well  as  her  gratitude  shone 


140  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

clearly.  By  half-past  four  we  had  got,  wearied  as  we  were, 
to  horse,  and  with  three  hours  of  daylight  before  us  hoped 
to  reach  Wesel  without  mishap.  But  for  most  of  us  the 
start  was  saddened  by  the  parting — though  we  hoped  it 
would  be  only  for  a  time — from  our  Dutch  friends..  We 
remembered  how  good  and  stanch  they  had  been  to  us. 
We  feared — though  Master  Lindstrom  would  not  hear  of  it 
— that  we  had  brought  misfortune  upon  them,  and  neither 
the  Duchess's  brave  eyes  nor  Dymphna's  blue  ones  were 
free  from  tears  as  they  embraced.  I  wrung  Van  Tree's 
hand  as  if  I  had  known  him  for  months  instead  of  days,  for 
a  common  danger  is  a  wondrous  knitter  of  hearts;  and  he 
only  smiled — though  Dymphna  blushed — when  I  kissed  her 
cheek.  A  few  broken  words,  a  last  cry  of  farewell,  and  we 
four,  with  our  two  guides  behind  us,  moved  down  the  Wesel 
road,  the  last  I  heard  of  our  good  friends  being  Master 
Lindstrom's  charge,  shouted  after  us,  "to  beware  of  the 
water  if  it  was  out!" 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A    WILLFUL    MAN'S    WAY. 

ONLY  to  feel  that  we  were  moving  was  a  relief,  though 
our  march  was  very  slow.  Master  Bertie  carried  the 
child  slung  in  a  cloak  before  him,  and,  thus  burdened, 
could  not  well  go  beyond  a  smooth  amble,  while  the  guides, 
who  were  on  foot,  and  the  pack-horses,  found  this  pace  as 
much  as  they  could  manage.  A  little  while  and^the  exhil- 
aration of  the  start  died  away.  The  fine  morning  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  wet  evening,  and  before  we  had  left  Emmerich 
three  miles  behind  us  Master  Bertie  and  I  had  come  to  look 
at  one  another  meaningly.  We  were  moving  in  a  dreary, 
silent  procession  through  heavy  rain,  with  the  prospect  of 
the  night  closing  in  early.  The  road,  too,  grew  more  heavy 
with  each  furlong,  and  presently  began  to  be  covered  with 
pools  of  water.  We  tried  to  avoid  this  inconvenience  by 
resorting  to  the  hill  slopes  on  our  left,  but  found  the  attempt 
a  waste  of  time,  as  a  deep  stream  or  backwater,  bordered 
by  marshes,  intervened.  The  narrow  road,  raised  but  little 
above  the  level  of  the  swiftly  flowing  river  on  our  right, 
turned  out  to  be  our  only  possible  path ;  and  when  Master 
Bertie  discerned  this  his  face  grew  more  and  more  grave. 

We  soon  found,  indeed,  as  we  plodded  along,  that  a  sheet 
of  water,  which  palely  reflected  the  evening  light,  was  taking 
the  place  of  the  road ;  and  through  this  we  had  to  plash  and 
plash  at  a  snail's  pace,  one  of  the  guides  on  a  pack-horse 
leading  the  way,  and  Master  Bertie  in  charge  of  his  wife 
coming  next;  then,  at  some  distance,  for  her  horse  did  not 
take  kindly  to  the  water,  the  younger  woman  followed  in 
my  care.  The  other  guide  brought  up  the  rear.  In  this 
way,  stopped  constantly  by  the  fears  of  the  horses,  which 
were  scared  by  the  expanse  of  flood  before  them,  we  crept 
wearily  on  until  the  moon  rose.  It  brought,  alas,  an  access 
of  light,  but  no  comfort !  The  water  seemed  continually  to 
grow  deeper,  the  current  on  our  right  swifter;  and  each 


142  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE, 

moment  I  dreaded  the  announcement  that  farther  advance 
was  impossible. 

It  seemed  to  have  come  to  that  at  last,  for  I  saw  the  Duch- 
ess and  her  husband  stop  and  stand  waiting  for  me,  their 
dark  shadows  projected  far  over  the  moonlit  surface. 

"What  is  to  be  done?"  Master  Bertie  called  out,  as  we 
moved  up  to  them.  "The  guide  tells  me  that  there  is  a 
broken  piece  of  road  in  front  which  will  be  impassable  with 
this  depth  of  water." 

I  had  expected  to  hear  this ;  yet  I  was  so  dumfoundered — 
for,  this  being  true,  we  were  lost  indeed — that  for  a  time  I 
could  not  answer.  No  one  had  uttered  a  word  of  reproach, 
but  I  knew  what  they  must  be  thinking.  I  had  brought 
them  to  this.  It  was  my  foolish  insistence  had  done  it. 
The  poor  beast  under  me  shivered.  I  struck  him  with  my 
heels.  "We  must  go  forward!"  I  said  desperately.  "Or 
what?  What  do  you  think?  Go  back?" 

"Steady!  steady,  Master  Knight  Errant!"  the  Duchess 
cried  in  her  calm,  brave  voice.  "I  never  knew  you  so  bad 
a  counselor  before!" 

"It  is  my  fault  that  you  are  here,"  I  said,  looking  dis- 
mally around. 

"Perhaps  the  other  road  is  as  bad,"  Master  Bertie 
replied.  "At  any  rate,  that  is  past  and  gone.  The  ques- 
tion is,  what  are  we  to  do  now?  To  remain  here  is  to  die 
of  cold  and  misery.  To  go  back  may  be  to  run  into  the 
enemy's  arms.  To  go  forward " 

"Will  be  to  be  drowned!"  Mistress  Anne  cried  with  a 
pitiful  sob. 

I  could  not  blame  her.  A  more  gloomy  outlook  than 
ours,  as  we  sat  on  our  jaded  horses  in  the  middle  of  this 
waste  of  waters,  which  appeared  in  the  moonlight  to  be 
boundless,  could  scarcely  be  imagined.  The  night  was 
cold  for  the  time  of  year,  and  the  keen  wind  pierced  our 
garments  and  benumbed  our  limbs.  At  any  moment  the 
rain  might  begin  afresh,  and  the  moon  be  overcast.  Of 
ourselves,  we  could  not  take  a  step  without  danger,  and  our 
guides  had  manifestly  lost  their  heads  and  longed  only  to 
return. 

"Yet,  I  am  for  going  forward,"  the  Duchess  urged. 
"If  there  be  but  this  one  bad  place  we  may  pass  it  with 
care." 


A    WILLFUL  MAN'S   WAY.  M3 

"We  may,"  her  husband  assented  dubiously.  "But  sup- 
pose when  we  have  passed  it  we  can  go  no  farther.  Sup- 
pose the " 

"It  is  no  good  supposing!"  she  retorted  with  some 
sharpness.  "Let  us  cross  this  place  first,  Richard,  and  we 
will  deal  with  the  other  when  we  come  to  it." 

He  nodded  assent,  and  we  moved  slowly  forward,  com- 
pelling the  guides  to  go  first.  In  this  order  we  waded 
some  hundred  yards  through  water,  which  grew  deeper  with 
each  step,  until  it  rose  nearly  to  our  girths.  Then  the  lads 
stopped. 

"Are  we  over?"  said  the  Duchess  eagerly. 

For  answer  one  of  them  pointed  to  the  flood  before  him, 
and  peering  forward  I  made  out  a  current  sweeping  silently 
and  swiftly  across  our  path — a  current  with  an  ominous  rush 
and  swirl. 

"Over?"  grunted  Master  Bertie.  "No,  this  is  the  place. 
See,  the  road  has  given  way,  and  the  stream  is  pouring 
through  from  the  river.  I  expect  it  is  getting  worse  every 
minute  as  the  banks  crumble." 

We  all  craned  forward,  looking  at  it.  It  was  impossible 
to  say  how  deep  the  water  was,  or  how  far  the  deep  part 
might  extend.  And  we  had  with  us  a  child  and  two 
women. 

"We  must  go  back!"  said  Master  Bertie  resolutely. 
"There  is  no  doubt  about  it.  The  flood  is  rising.  If  we 
do  not  take  care,  we  shall  be  cut  off,  and  be  able  to  go 
neither  backward  nor  forward.  I  cannot  see  a  foot  of  dry 
land,  as  it  is,  before  or  behind  us." 

He  was  right.  Far  and  wide,  wherever  our  eyes  could 
reach,  the  moonlight  was  reflected  in  a  sheet  of  water.  We 
were  nearly  up  to  our  girths  in  water.  On  one  side  was  the 
hurrying  river,  on  the  other  were  the  treacherous  depths  of 
the  backwater.  I  asked  the  guide  as  well  as  I  could 
whether  the  road  was  good  beyond.  He  answered  that  he 
did  not  know.  He  and  his  companion  were  so  terrified 
that  we  only  kept  them  beside  us  by  threats. 

"I  fear  we  must  go  back,"  I  said,  assenting  sorrowfully. 

Even  the  Duchess  agreed,  and  we  were  in  the  act  of  turn- 
ing to  retrace  our  steps  with  what  spirit  we  might,  when  a 
distant  sound  brought  us  all  to  a  standstill  again.  The 
wind  was  blowing  from  the  quarter  whence  we  had  come — 


144  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

from  Emmerich;  and  it  brought  to  us  the  sound  of  voices. 
We  all  stopped  to  listen.  Yes,  they  were  voices  we  heard  — 
loud,  strident  tones,  mingled  now  with  the  sullen  plash  of 
horses  tramping  through  the  water.  I  looked  at  the  Duch- 
ess. Her  face  was  pale,  but  her  courage  did  not  fail  her. 
She  understood  in  a  trice  that  the  danger  we  had  so  much 
dreaded  was  upon  us — that  we  were  followed,  and  the  fol- 
lowers were  at  our  heels;  and  she  turned  her  horse  round 
again.  Without  a  word  she  spurred  it  back  toward  the 
deep  part.  I  seized  Anne's  rein  and  followed,  notwithstand- 
ing that  the  poor  girl  in  her  terror  would  have  resisted.  Let- 
ting the  guides  go  as  they  pleased,  we  four  in  a  moment 
found  ourselves  abreast  again,  our  horses  craning  over  the 
stream,  while  we,  with  whip  and  spur,  urged  them  on. 

In  cold  blood  we  should  scarcely  have  done  it.  Indeed, 
for  a  minute,  as  our  steeds  stumbled,  and  recovered  them- 
selves, and  slid  forward,  only  to  draw  back  trembling — as 
the  water  rose  above  our  boots  or  was  flung  by  our  fellows 
in  our  eyes,  and  all  was  flogging  and  scrambling  and  splash- 
ing, it  seemed  as  if  we  were  to  be  caught  in  a  trap  despite 
our  resolve.  But  at  last  Master  Bertie's  horse  took  the 
plunge.  His  wife's  followed;  and  both,  partly  floundering 
and  partly  swimming,  set  forward  snorting  the  while  in  fear. 
To  my  joy  I  saw  them  emerge  safely  not  ten  yards  away, 
and,  shaking  themselves,  stand  comparatively  high  out  of 
the  water. 

"Come!"  cried  my  lady  imperatively,  as  she  turned  in 
her  saddle  with  a  gesture  of  defiance.  "Come!  It  is  all 
right." 

Come,  indeed!  I  wanted  nothing  better,  for  I  was 
beside  myself  with  passion.  But,  flog  as  I  might,  I  could 
not  get  Anne's  brute  to  take  the  plunge.  The  girl  herself 
could  give  me  no  aid;  clinging  to  her  saddle,  pale  and  half- 
fainting,  she  could  only  beg  me  to  leave  her,  crying  out 
again  and  again  in  a  terrified  voice  that  she  would  be 
drowned.  With  her  cry  there  suddenly  mingled  another, 
the  hail  of  our  pursuers  as  they  sighted  us.  I  could  hear 
them  drawing  nearer,  and  I  grew  desperate.  Luckily  they 
could  not  make  any  speed  in  water  so  deep,  and  time  was 
given  me  for  one  last  furious  effort.  It  succeeded.  My 
horse  literally  fell  into  the  stream  ;  it  dragged  Anne's  after 
it.  How  we  kept  our  seats,  how  they  their  footing,  I  never 


A    WILLFUL  MAN'S   WAY.  145 

understood;  but,  somehow,  splashing  and  stumbling  and 
blinded  by  the  water  dashed  in  our  faces,  we  came  out  on 
the  other  side,  where  the  Duchess  and  her  husband,  too 
faithful  to  us  to  save  themselves,  had  watched  the  struggle 
in  an  agony  of  suspense.  I  did  but  fling  the  girl's  rein  to 
Master  Bertie ;  and  then  I  wheeled  my  horse  to  the  stream 
again.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  what  I  must  do.  "Go 
on,"  I  cried,  waving  my  hand  with  a  gesture  of  farewell. 
"Go  on!  I  can  keep  them  here  for  a  while." 

"Nonsense!"  I  heard  the  Duchess  cry,  her  voice  high 
and  shrill.  "It  is " 

"Go  on!"  I  cried.  "Go  on!  Do  not  lose  a  moment,  or 
it  will  be  useless." 

Master  Bertie  hesitated.  But  he  too  saw  that  this  was  the 
only  chance.  The  Spaniards  were  on  the  brink  of  the 
stream  now,  and  must,  if  they  passed  it,  overtake  us  easily. 
He  hesitated,  I  have  said,  for  a  moment.  Then  he  seized 
his  wife's  rein  and  drew  her  on,  and  I  heard  the  three 
horses  go  splashing  away  through  the  flood.  I  threw  a 
glance  at  them  over  my  shoulder,  bethinking  me  that  I  had 
not  told  the  Duchess  my  story,  and  that  Sir  Anthony  and 
Petronilla  would  never — but,  pish!  What  was  I  thinking 
of?  That  was  a  thought  for  a  woman.  I  had  only  to 
harden  my  heart  now,  and  set  my  teeth  together.  My  task 
was  very  simple  indeed.  I  had  just  to  keep  these  men — 
there  were  four — here  as  long  as  I  could,  and  if  possible  to 
stop  Clarence's  pursuit  altogether. 

For  I  had  made  no  mistake.  The  first  man  to  come  up 
was  Clarence — Clarence  himself.  He  let  fall  a  savage  word 
as  his  horse  stopped  suddenly  with  its  fore  feet  spread  out  on 
the  edge  of  the  stream,  and  his  dark  face  grew  darker  as  he 
saw  the  swirling  eddies,  and  me  standing  fronting  him  in 
the  moonlight  with  my  sword  out.  He  discerned  at  once, 
I  think,  the  strength  of  my  position.  Where  I  stood  the 
water  was  scarcely  over  my  horse's  fetlocks.  Where  he 
stood  it  was  over  his  horse's  knees.  And  between  us  it 
flowed  nearly  four  feet  deep. 

He  held  a  hasty  parley  with  his  companions.  And  then 
he  hailed  me.  "Will  you  surrender?"  he  cried  in  English. 
"We  will  give  you  quarter." 

"Surrender?  To  whom?"  I  said.  "And  why — why 
should  I  surrender?  Are  you  robbers  and  cutpurses?" 


146  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

"Surrender  in  the  name  of  the  Emperor,  you  fool!"  he 
answered  sternly  and  roughly. 

"I  know  nothing  about  the  Emperor!"  I  retorted. 
"What  Emperor?" 

"In  the  Queen's  name,  then!" 

"The  Duke  of  Cleves  is  queen  here!"  I  cried.  "And  as 
the  flood  is  rising,"  I  added  scornfully,  "I  would  advise 
you  to  go  home  again." 

"You  would  advise,  would  you?  Who  are  you?"  he  re- 
plied, in  a  kind  of  wrathful  curiosity. 

I  gave  him  no  answer.  I  have  often  since  reflected,  with 
a  fuller  knowledge  of  certain  facts,  that  no  stranger  inter- 
view ever  took  place  than  this  short  colloquy  between  us, 
that  no  stranger  fight  ever  was  fought  than  that  which 
we  contemplated  as  we  stood  there  bathed  in  the  May 
moonlight,  with  the  water  all  round  us,  and  the  cold 
sky  above.  A  strange  fight  indeed  it  would  have  been 
between  him  and  me,  had  it  ever  come  to  the  sword's 
point! 

But  this  was  what  happened.  His  last  words  had  scarcely 
rung  out  when  my  horse  began  to  quiver  under  me  and 
sway  backward  and  forward.  I  had  just  time  to  take  the 
alarm,  when  the  poor  beast  sank  down  and  rolled  gently 
over,  leaving  me  bestriding  its  body,  my  feet  in  the  water. 
Whatever  the  cause  of  this,  I  had  to  disentangle  myself,  and 
that  quickly,  for  the  four  men  opposite  me,  seeing  me  dis- 
mounted, plunged  with  a  cry  of  triumph  into  the  water,  and 
Degan  to  flounder  across.  Without  more  ado  I  stepped 
forward  to  keep  the  ford. 

The  foremost  and  nearest  to  me  was  Clarence,  whose 
horse  began,  half-way  across,  to  swim.  It  was  still  scram- 
bling to  regain  its  footing  when  it  came  within  my  reach, 
and  I  slashed  it  cruelly  across  the  nostrils.  It  turned  in  an 
instant  on  its  side.  I  saw  the  rider's  face  gleam  white  in 
the  water;  his  stirrup  shone  a  moment  as  the  horse  rolled 
over,  then  in  a  second  the  two  were  gone  down  the  stream. 
It  was  done  so  easily,  so  quickly,  it  amazed  me.  One 
gone!  hurrah!  I  turned  quickly  to  the  others,  who  were 
about  landing.  My  blood  was  fired,  and  my  yell  of  victory, 
as  I  dashed  at  them,  scared  back  two  of  the  horses.  De- 
spite their  riders'  urging,  they  turned  and  scrambled  out  on 
the  side  from  which  they  had  entered.  Only  one  was  left, 
the  farthest  from  me.  He  got  across  indeed.  Yet  he  was 


I   LUNGED   TWICE   AT   THE   RIDER 


A    WILLFUL  MAN'S   WAY.  147 

the  most  unlucky  of  all,  for  his  horse  stumbled  on  landing, 
came  down  heavily  on  its  head,  and  flung  him  at  my  very 
feet. 

It  was  no  time  for  quarter — I  had  to  think  of  my  friends 
— and  while  with  one  hand  I  seized  the  flying  rein  as  the 
horse  scrambled  trembling  to  its  feet,  with  the  other  I 
lunged  twice  at  the  rider  as  he  half  tried  to  rise,  half  tried 
to  grasp  at  me.  The  second  time  I  ran  him  through,  and 
he  screamed  shrilly.  In  those  days  I  was  young  and  hot- 
headed, and  I  answered  only  by  a  shout  of  defiance,  as  I 
flung  myself  into  the  saddle  and  dashed  away  through  the 
water  after  my  friends. 

Vcz  victis  !  I  had  done  enough  to  check  the  pursuit,  and 
had  yet  escaped  myself.  If  I  could  join  the  others  again, 
what  a  triumph  it  would  be!  I  had  no  guide,  but  neither 
had  those  in  front  of  me;  and  luckily  at  this  point  a  row  of 
pollard  willows  defined  the  line  between  the  road  and  the 
river.  Keeping  this  on  my  right,  I  made  good  way.  The 
horse  seemed  strong  under  me,  the  water  was  shallow,  and 
appeared  to  be  growing  more  so,  and  presently  across  the 
waste  of  flood  I  discerned  before  me  a  dark,  solitary  tower, 
the  tower  seemingly  of  a  church,  for  it  was  topped  by  a 
stumpy  spire,  which  daylight  would  probably  have  shown  to 
be  of  wood. 

There  was  a  little  dry  ground  round  the  church,  a  mere 
patch  in  a  sea  of  water,  but  my  horse  rang  its  hoofs  on  it 
with  every  sign  of  joy,  and  arched  its  neck  as  it  trotted  up 
to  the  neighborhood  of  the  church,  whinnying  with  pleas- 
ure. From  the  back  of  the  building,  I  was  not  surprised, 
came  an  answering  neigh.  As  I  pulled  up,  a  man,  his 
weapon  in  his  hand,  came  from  the  porch,  and  a  woman 
followed  him.  I  called  to  them  gayly.  "I  fancied  you 
would  be  here  the  moment  I  saw  the  church!"  I  said,  slid- 
ing to  the  ground. 

"Thank  Heaven  you  are  safe!"  the  Duchess  answered, 
and  to  my  astonishment  she  flung  her  arms  round  my  neck 
and  kissed  me.  "What  has  happened?"  she  asked,  look- 
ing in  my  eyes,  her  own  full  of  tears. 

"I  think  I  have  stopped  them,"  I  answered,  turning  sud- 
denly shy,  though,  boylike,  I  had  been  longing  a  few  min- 
utes before  to  talk  of  my  victory.  "They  tried  to  cross, 
and " 

I  had  not  sheathed  my  sword.     Master  Bertie  caught  my 


148  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

wrist,  and,  lifting  the  blade,  looked  at  it.  "So,  so!"  he 
said  nodding.  "Are  you  hurt?" 

"Not  touched!"  I  answered.  Before  more  was  said  he 
compelled  his  wife  to  go  back  into  the  porch.  The  wind 
blew  keenly  across  the  open  ground,  and  we  were  all  wet 
and  shivering.  When  we  had  fastened  up  the  horse  we  fol- 
lowed her.  The  door  of  the  church  was  locked,  it  seemed, 
and  the  porch  afforded  the  best  shelter  to  be  had.  Its 
upper  part  was  of  open  woodwork,  and  freely  admitted  the 
wind;  but  wide  eaves  projected  over  these  openings,  and 
over  the  door,  so  that  at  least  it  was  dry  within.  By  hud- 
dling together  on  the  floor  against  the  windward  side  we  got 
some  protection.  I  hastily  told  what  had  happened. 

"So  Clarence  is  gone!"  My  lady's  voice  as  she  said  the 
words  trembled,  but  not  in  sorrow  or  pity  as  I  judged. 
Rather  in  relief.  Her  dread  and  hatred  of  the  man  were 
strange  and  terrible,  and  so  seemed  to  me  then.  Afterward, 
I  learned  that  something  had  passed  between  them  which 
made  almost  natural  such  feelings  on  her  part,  and  made 
natural  also  a  bitter  resentment  on  his.  But  of  that  no 
more.  "You  are  quite  sure,"  she  said — pressing  me  anx- 
iously for  confirmation — "that  it  was  he!" 

"Yes.     But  I  am  not  sure  that  he  is  dead,"  I  explained. 

"You  seem  to  bear  a  charmed  life  yourself,"  she  said. 

"Hush!"  cried  her  husband  quickly.  "Do  not  say  that 
to  the  lad.  It  is  unlucky.  But  do  you  think,"  he  con- 
tinued— the  porch  was  in  darkness,  and  we  could  scarcely 
make  out  one  another's  faces — "that  there  is  any  further 
chance  of  pursuit?" 

"Not  by  that  party  to-night,"  I  said  grimly.  "Nor  I 
think  to-morrow." 

"Good!"  he  answered.  "For  I  can  see  nothing  but 
water  ahead,  and  it  would  be  madness  to  go  on  by  night 
without  a  guide.  We  must  stay  here  until  morning,  what- 
ever the  risk." 

He  spoke  gloomily — and  with  reason.  Our  position  was 
a  miserable,  almost  a  desperate  one,  even  on  the  supposition 
that  pursuit  had  ceased.  We  had  lost  all  our  baggage, 
food,  wraps.  We  had  no  guides,  and  we  were  in  the  midst 
of  a  flooded  country,  with  two  tender  women  and  a  baby,  our 
only  shelter  the  porch  of  God's  house.  Mistress  Anne,  who 
was  crouching  in  the  darkest  corner  next  the  church,  seemed 


A    WILLFUL  MAN'S   WAY.  149 

to  have  collapsed  entirely.  I  remembered  afterward  that  I 
did  not  once  hear  her  speak  that  night.  The  Duchess  tried 
to  maintain  our  spirits  and  her  own ;  but  in  the  face  of  cold, 
damp,  and  hunger,  she  could  do  little.  Master  Bertie  and 
I  took  it  by  turns  to  keep  a  kind  of  watch,  but  by  morning 
— it  was  a  long  night  and  a  bitter  one — we  were  worn  out, 
and  slept  despite  our  misery.  We  should  have  been  sur- 
prised and  captured  without  a  blow  if  the  enemy  had  come 
upon  us  then. 

I  awoke  with  a  start  to  find  the  gray  light  of  a  raw  misty 
morning  falling  upon  and  showing  up  our  wretched  group. 
The  Duchess's  head  was  hidden  in  her  cloak;  her  hus- 
band's had  sunk  on  his  breast ;  but  Mistress  Anne — I  looked 
at  her  and  shuddered.  Had  she  sat  so  all  night?  Sat 
staring  with  that  stony  face  of  pain,  and  those  tearless 
eyes  on  the  moonlight,  on  the  darkness  which  had  been 
before  the  dawn,  on  the  cold  first  rays  of  morning?  Stared 
on  all  alike,  and  seen  none?  I  shuddered  and  peered  at 
her,  alarmed,  doubtful,  wondering,  asking  myself  what 
this  was  that  had  happened  to  her.  Had  fear  and  cold 
killed  her,  or  turned  her  brain?  "Anne!"  I  said  timidly. 
"Anne!" 

She  did  not  answer  nor  turn  ;  nor  did  the  fixed  gaze  of  her 
eyes  waver.  I  thought  she  did  not  hear.  "Anne!"  I  cried 
again,  so  loudly  that  the  Duchess  stirred,  and  muttered 
something  in  her  sleep.  But  the  girl  showed  no  sign  of 
consciousness.  I  put  out  my  hand  and  touched  her. 

She  turned  sharply  and  saw  me,  and  in  an  instant  drew 
her  skirt  away  with  a  gesture  of  such  dread,  loathing  repul- 
sion as  froze  me;  while  a  violent  shudder  convulsed  her 
whole  frame.  Afterward  she  seemed  unable  to  withdraw 
her  eyes  from  me,  but  sat  in  the  same  attitude,  gazing  at  me 
with  a  fixed  look  of  horror,  as  one  might  gaze  at  a  serpent, 
while  tremor  after  tremor  shook  her. 

I  was  frightened  and  puzzled,  and  was  still  staring  at  her, 
wondering  what  I  had  done,  when  a  footstep  fell  on  the 
road  outside  and  called  away  my  attention.  I  turned  from 
her  to  see  a  man's  figure  looming  dark  in  the  doorway.  He 
looked  at  us — I  suppose  he  had  found  the  horses  outside — 
gazing  in  surprise  at  the  queer  group.  I  bade  him  good- 
morning  in  Dutch,  and  he  answered  as  well  as  his  aston- 
ishment would  let  him.  He  was  a  short,  stout  fellow,  with 


ISO  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

a  big  face,  capable  of  expressing  a  good  deal  of  astonish- 
ment. He  seemed  to  be  a  peasant  or  farmer.  "What  do 
you  here?"  he  continued,  his  guttural  phrases  tolerably 
intelligible  to  me. 

I  explained  as  clearly  as  I  could  that  we  were  on  the  way 
to  Wesel.  Then  I  awoke  the  Duchess  and  her  husband, 
and  stretching  our  chilled  and  aching  limbs,  we  went  out- 
side, the  man  still  gazing  at  us.  Alas!  the  day  was  not 
much  better  than  the  night.  We  could  see  but  a  very  little 
way,  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  round  us  only.  The  rest 
was  mist — all  mist.  We  appealed  to  the  man  for  food  and 
shelter,  and  he  nodded,  and,  obeying  his  signs  rather  than 
his  words,  we  kicked  up  our  starved  beasts  and  plodded 
out  into  the  fog  by  his  side.  Anne  mounted  silently  and 
without  objection,  but  it  was  plain  that  something  strange 
had  happened  to  her.  Her  condition  was  unnatural.  The 
Duchess  gazed  at  her  very  anxiously,  and,  getting  no  an- 
swers, or  very  scanty  ones,  to  her  questions,  shook  her  head 
gravely. 

But  we  were  on  the  verge  of  one  pleasure  at  least.  When 
we  reached  the  hospitable  kitchen  of  the  farmhouse  it  was 
joy  indeed  to  stand  before  the  great  turf  fire,  and  feel  the 
heat  stealing  into  our  half-frozen  bodies ;  to  turn  and  warm 
back  and  front,  while  the  good  wife  set  bread  and  hot  milk 
before  us.  How  differently  we  three  felt  in  half  an  hour! 
How  the  Duchess's  eyes  shone  once  more!  How  easily 
rose  the  laugh  to  our  lips!  Joy  had  indeed  come  with  the 
morning.  To  be  warm  and  dry  and  well  fed  after  being 
cold  and  wet  and  hungry — what  a  thing  this  is! 

But  on  one  neither  food  nor  warmth  seemed  to  have  any 
effect.  Mistress  Anne  did,  indeed,  in  obedience  to  my 
lady's  sharp  words,  raise  her  bowl  to  her  lips.  But  she  set 
it  down  quickly  and  sat  looking  in  dull  apathy  at  the  glow- 
ing peat.  What  had  come  over  her? 

Master  Bertie  went  out  with  the  farmer  to  attend  to  the 
horses,  and  when  he  came  back  he  had  news. 

"There  is  a  lad  here,"  he  said  in  some  excitement,  "who 
has  just  seen  three  foreigners  ride  past  on  the  road,  along 
with  two  Germans  on  pack-horses;  five  in  all.  They  must 
be  three  of  the  party  who  followed  us  yesterday." 


A    WILLFUL  MAN'S    WAY.  151 

I  whistled.  "Then  Clarence  got  himself  out,"  I  said, 
shrugging  my  shoulders.  "Well!  well!" 

"I  expect  that  is  so,"  Master  Bertie  answered,  the  Duch- 
ess remaining  silent.  "The  question  arises  again,  what  is 
to  be  done?"  he  continued.  "We  may  follow  them  to 
Wesel,  but  the  good  man  says  the  floods  are  deep  between 
here  and  the  town,  and  we  shall  have  Clarence  and  his 
party  before  us  all  the  way — shall  perhaps  run  straight  into 
their  arms." 

"But  what  else  can  we  do?"  I  said.  "It  is  impossible  to 
go  back." 

We  held  a  long  conference,  and  by  much  questioning  of 
our  host  learned  that  half  a  league  away  was  a  ferry-boat, 
which  could  carry  as  many  as  two  horses  over  the  river  at 
a  time.  On  the  farther  side  we  might  hit  a  road  leading  to 
Santon,  three  leagues  distant.  Should  we  go  to  Santon 
after  all?  The  farmer  thought  the  roads  on  that  side  of  the 
river  might  not  be  flooded.  We  should  then  be  in  touch 
once  more  with  our  Dutch  friends  and  might  profit  by  Mas- 
ter Lindstrom's  advice,  on  which  I  for  one  was  now  inclined 
to  set  a  higher  value. 

"The  river  is  bank  full.  Are  you  sure  the  ferry-boat  can 
cross?"  I  asked. 

Our  host  was  not  certain.  And  thereupon  an  unexpected 
voice  struck  in. 

"  Oh,  dear,  do  not  let  us  run  any  more  risks  !  "  it  said.  It 
was  Mistress  Anne's.  She  was  herself  again,  trembling, 
excited,  bright-eyed;  as  different  as  possible  from  the  Anne 
ot  a  few  minutes  before.  A  great  change  had  come  over 
her.  Perhaps  the  warmth  had  done  it. 

A  third  course  was  suggested,  to  stay  quietly  where  we 
were.  The  farmhouse  stood  at  some  little  distance  from 
the  road;  and  though  it  was  rough — it  was  very  rough,  con- 
sisting only  of  two  rooms,  in  one  of  which  a  cow  was  stalled 
— still  it  could  furnish  food  and  shelter.  Why  not  stay 
there? 

But  the  Duchess  wisely,  I  think,  decided  against  this. 
"It  is  unpleasant  to  go  wandering  again,"  she  said  with  a 
shiver.  "But  I  shall  not  rest  until  we  are  within  the  walls 
of  a  town.  Master  Lindstrom  laid  so  much  stress  on  that. 
And  I  fancy  that  the  party  who  overtook  us  last  night  are 


IS2  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

not  the  main  body.  Others  will  have  gone  to  Wesel  by 
boat  perhaps,  or  along  the  other  bank.  There  they  will 
meet,  and,  learning  we  have  not  arrived,  they  will  probably 
return  this  way  and  search  for  us." 

"Clarence " 

"Yes,  if  we  have  Clarence  to  deal  with,"  Master  Bertie 
assented  gravely,  "we  cannot  afford  to  lose  a  point.  We 
will  try  the  ferry." 

It  was  something  gained  to  start  dry  and  warm.  But  the 
women's  pale  faces — for  little  by  little  the  fatigue,  the  want 
of  rest,  the  fear,  were  telling  even  on  the  Duchess — were 
sad  to  see.  I  was  sore  and  stiff  myself.  The  wound  I  had 
received  so  mysteriously  had  bled  afresh,  probably  during 
last  night's  fight.  We  needed  all  our  courage  to  put  a 
brave  face  on  the  matter,  and  bear  up  and  go  out  again  into 
the  air,  which  for  the  first  week  in  May  was  cold  and  nip- 
ping. Suspense  and  anxiety  had  told  in  various  ways  on  all 
of  us.  While  I  felt  a  fierce  anger  against  those  who  were 
driving  us  to  these  straits.  Master  Bertie  was  nervous  and 
excited,  alarmed  for  his  wife  and  child,  and  inclined  to  see 
an  enemy  in  every  bush. 

However,  we  cheered  up  a  little  when  we  reached  the 
ferry  and  found  the  boat  could  cross  without  much  risk. 
We  had  to  go  over  in  two  detachments,  and  it  was  nearly 
an  hour  past  noon  before  we  all  stood  on  the  farther  bank 
and  bade  farewell  to  the  honest  soul  whose  help  had  been 
of  so  much  importance  to  us.  He  told  us  we  had  three 
leagues  to  go,  and  we  hoped  to  be  at  rest  in  Santon  by  four 
o'clock. 

But  the  three  leagues  turned  out  to  be  more  nearly  five, 
while  the  road  was  so  founderous  that  we  had  again  and 
again  to  quit  it. 

The  evening  came  on,  the  light  waned,  and  still  we  were 
feeling  our  way,  so  to  speak — the  women  tired  and  on  the 
verge  of  tears;  the  men  muddy  to  the  waist,  savage,  and 
impatient.  It  was  eight  o'clock,  and  dusk  was  well  upon 
us  before  we  caught  sight  of  the  first  lights  of  Santon,  and 
in  fear  lest  the  gates  might  be  shut,  pressed  forward  at  such 
speed  as  our  horses  could  compass. 

"Do  you  go  on!"  the  Duchess  adjured  us.  "Anne  and 
I  will  be  safe  enough  behind  you.  Let  me  take  the  child, 
and  do  you  ride  on.  We  cannot  pass  the  night  in  the  fields." 


A    WILLFUL  MAN'S    WAY.  153 

The  importance  of  securing  admission  was  so  great  that 
Master  Bertie  and  I  agreed;  and  cantered  on,  soon  out- 
stripping our  companions,  and  almost  in  the  gloom  losing 
sight  of  them.  Dark  masses  of  woods,  the  last  remnants, 
apparently,  of  a  forest,  lay  about  the  road  we  had  to  tra- 
verse. We  were  passing  one  of  these,  scarcely  three  hun- 
dred paces  short  of  the  town,  and  I  was  turning  in  the  sad- 
dle to  see  that  the  ladies  were  following  safely,  when  I 
heard  Master  Bertie,  who  was  a  bow-shot  in  front  of  me, 
give  a  sudden  cry. 

I  wheeled  round  hastily  to  learn  the  reason,  and  was  just 
in  time  to  see  three  horsemen  sweep  into  the  road  before 
him  from  the  cover  of  the  trees.  They  were  so  close  to  him 
— and  they  filled  the  road — that  his  horse  carried  him 
amongst  them  almost  before  he  could  check  it,  or  so  it 
seemed  to  me.  I  heard  their  loud  challenge,  saw  his  arm 
wave,  and  guessed  that  his  sword  was  out.  I  spurred  des- 
perately to  join  him,  giving  a  wild  shout  of  encouragement 
as  I  did  so.  But  before  I  could  come  up,  or  indeed  cross 
half  the  distance,  the  scuffle  was  over.  One  man  fell  head- 
long from  his  saddle,  one  horse  fled  riderless  down  the  road, 
and  at  sight  of  this,  or  perhaps  of  me,  the  others  turned  tail 
without  more  ado  and  made  off,  leaving  Master  Bertie  in 
possession  of  the  field.  The  whole  thing  had  passed  in  the 
shadow  of  the  wood  in  less  than  half  a  minute.  When  I 
drew  rein  by  him  he  was  sheathing  his  sword.  "Is  it  Clar- 
ence?" I  cried  eagerly. 

"No,  no;  I  did  not  see  him.  I  think  not,"  he  an- 
swered. He  was  breathing  hard  and  was  very  much 
excited.  "They  were  poor  swordsmen,  for  Spaniards,"  he 
added — "very  poor,  I  thought." 

I  jumped  off  my  horse,  and,  kneeling  beside  the  man, 
turned  him  over.  He  was  badly  hurt,  if  not  dying,  cut 
across  the  neck.  He  looked  hard  at  him  by  such  light  as 
there  was,  and  did  not  recognize  him  as  one  of  our  assail- 
ants of  the  night  before. 

"I  do  not  think  he  is  a  Spaniard,"  I  said  slowly.  Then 
a  certain  suspicion  occurred  to  my  mind,  and  I  stooped 
lower  over  him. 

"Not  a  Spaniard?"  Master  Bertie  said  stupidly.  "How 
is  that?" 

Before  I  answered  I  raised  the  man  in  my  arms>  and. 


154  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

carrying  him  carefully  to  the  side  of  the  road,  set  him  with 
his  back  to  a  tree.  Then  I  got  quickly  on  my  horse.  The 
women  were  just  coming  up.  "Master  Bertie,"  I  said  in  a 
low  voice,  as  I  looked  this  way  and  that  to  see  if  the  alarm 
had  spread,  "I  am  afraid  there  is  a  mistake.  But  say  noth- 
ing to  them.  It  is  one  of  the  town-guard  you  have  killed ! " 
"One  of  the  town-guard!"  he  cried,  a  light  bursting  in 
on  him,  and  the  reins  dropping  from  his  hand.  "VVhat 
shall  we  do?  We  are  lost,  man!" 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

AT    BAY    IN    THE    GATEHOUSE. 

WHAT  was  to  be  done?  That  was  the  question,  and  a 
terrible  question  it  was.  Behind  us  we  had  the  inhos- 
pitable country,  dark  and  dreary,  the  night  wind  sweeping 
over  it.  In  front,  where  the  lights  twinkled  and  the  smoke 
of  the  town  went  up,  we  were  like  to  meet  with  a  savage 
reception.  And  it  was  no  time  for  weighing  alternatives. 
The  choice  had  to  be  made,  made  in  a  moment ;  I  marvel 
to  this  day  at  the  quickness  with  which  I  made  it  for  good 
or  ill. 

"We  must  get  into  the  town!"  I  cried  imperatively. 
"And  before  the  alarm  is  given.  Tt  is  hopeless  to  fly,  Mas- 
ter Bertie,  and  we  cannot  spend  another  night  in  the  fields. 
Quick,  madam!"  I  continued  to  the  Duchess,  as  she  came 
up.  I  did  not  wait  to  hear  his  opinion,  for  I  saw  he  was 
stunned  by  the  catastrophe.  "We  have  hurt  one  of  the 
town-guard  through  a  mistake.  We  must  get  through  the 
gate  before  it  is  discovered!" 

I  seized  her  rein  and  flogged  up  her  horse,  and  gave  her 
no  time  to  ask  questions,  but  urged  on  the  party  at  a  hand 
gallop  until  the  gate  was  reached.  The  attempt,  I  knew, 
was  desperate,  for  the  two  men  who  had  escaped  had  ridden 
straight  for  the  town ;  but  I  saw  no  other  resource,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  to  be  better  to  surrender  peaceably,  if  that 
were  possible,  than  to  expose  the  women  to  another  night 
of  such  cold  and  hunger  as  the  last.  And  fortune  so  far 
favored  us  that  when  we  reached  the  gate  it  was  open. 
Probably,  the  patrol  having  ridden  through  to  get  help,  no 
one  had  thought  fit  to  close  it ;  and,  no  one  withstanding 
us,  we  spurred  our  sobbing  horses  under  the  archway  and 
entered  the  street. 

It  was  a  curious  entry,  and  a  curious  scene  we  came 
upon.  I  remember  now  how  strange  it  all  looked.  The 


156  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

houses,  leaning  forward  in  a  dozen  quaint  forms,  clear  cut 
against  the  pale  evening  sky,  caused  a  darkness  as  of  a 
cavern  in  the  narrow  street  below.  Here  and  there  in  the 
midst  of  this  darkness  hung  a  lantern,  which,  making  the 
gloom  away  from  it  seem  deeper,  lit  up  the  things  about  it, 
throwing  into  flaring  prominence  some  barred  window  with 
a  scared  face  peering  from  it,  some  corner  with  a  puddle,  a 
slinking  dog,  a  broken  flight  of  steps.  Just  within  the  gate 
stood  a  brazier  full  of  glowing  coal,  and  beside  it  a  halbert 
rested  against  the  wall.  I  divined  that  the  watchman  had 
run  into  the  town  with  the  riders,  and  I  drew  rein  in  doubt, 
listening  and  looking.  I  think  if  we  had  ridden  straight  on 
then,  all  might  have  been  well;  or,  at  least,  we  might  have 
been  allowed  to  give  ourselves  up. 

But  we  hesitated  a  moment,  and  were  lost.  No  doubt> 
though  we  saw  but  one,  there  were  a  score  of  people  watch- 
ing us,  who  took  us  for  four  men,  Master  Bertie  and  I  being 
in  front;  and  these,  judging  from  the  boldness  of  our  entry 
that  there  were  more  behind,  concluded  that  this  was  a  foray 
upon  the  town.  At  any  rate,  they  took  instant  advantage 
of  our  pause.  With  a  swift  whir  an  iron  pot  came  hurtling 
past  me,  and,  missing  the  Duchess  by  a  hand's-breadth, 
went  clanking  under  the  gatehouse.  That  served  for  a  sig- 
nal. In  a  moment  an  alarm  of  hostile  cries  rose  all  round 
us.  An  arrow  whizzed  between  my  horse's  feet.  Half  a 
dozen  odd  missiles,  snatched  up  by  hasty  hands,  came  rain- 
ing in  on  us  out  of  the  gloom.  The  town  seemed  to  be 
rising  as  one  man.  A  bell  began  to  ring,  and  a  hundred 
yards  in  front,  where  the  street  branched  off  to  right  and 
left,  the  way  seemed  suddenly  alive  from  wall  to  wall  with 
lights  and  voices  and  brandished  arms,  the  gleam  of  steel, 
and  the  babel  of  a  furious  crowd — a  crowd  making  down 
toward  us  with  a  purpose  we  needed  no  German  to  interpret. 

It  was  a  horrible  moment;  the  more  horrible  that  I  had 
not  expected  this  fury,  and  was  unnerved  as  well  as  taken 
aback  by  it.  Remembering  that  I  had  brought  my  com- 
panions here,  and  that  two  were  women,  one  was  a  child,  I 
quailed.  How  could  I  protect  them?  There  was  no  mis- 
taking the  stern  meaning  of  those  cries,  of  that  rage  so  much 
surpassing  anything  I  had  feared.  Though  I  did  not  know 
that  the  man  we  had  struck  down  was  a  bridegroom,  and 


AT  BAY  IN   THE   GATEHOUSE.  157 

that  there  were  those  in  the  crowd  in  whose  ears  the  young 
wife's  piercing  scream  still  rang,  I  yet  quailed  before  their 
yells  and  curses. 

As  I  glanced  round  for  a  place  of  refuge,  my  eyes  lit  on 
an  open  doorway  close  to  me,  and  close  also  to  the  brazier 
and  halbert.  It  was  a  low  stone  doorway,  beetle-browed, 
with  a  coat  of  arms  carved  over  it.  I  saw  in  an  instant  that 
it  must  lead  to  the  tower  above  us — the  gatehouse;  and  I 
sprang  from  my  horse,  a  fresh  yell  from  the  houses  hailing 
the  act.  I  saw  that,  if  we  were  to  gain  a  moment  for  parley- 
ing, we  must  take  refuge  there.  I  do  not  know  how  I  did 
it,  but  somehow  I  made  myself  understood  by  the  others 
and  got  the  women  off  their  horses  and  dragged  Mistress 
Anne  inside,  where  at  once  we  both  fell  in  the  darkness 
over  the  lower  steps  of  a  spiral  staircase.  This  hindered 
the  Duchess,  who  was  following,  and  I  heard  a  scuffle  tak- 
ing place  behind  us.  But  in  that  confined  space — the  stair- 
case was  very  narrow — I  could  give  no  help.  I  could  only 
stumble  upward,  dragging  the  fainting  girl  after  me,  until 
we  emerged  through  an  open  doorway  at  the  top  into  a 
room.  What  kind  of  room  I  did  not  notice  then,  only  that 
it  was  empty.  Notice!  It  was  no  time  for  taking  notice. 
The  bell  was  clanging  louder  and  louder  outside.  The  mob 
were  yelling  like  hounds  in  sight  of  their  quarry.  The 
shouts,  the  confused  cries,  and  threats,  and  questions  deaf- 
ened me.  I  turned  to  learn  what  was  happening  behind 
me.  The  other  two  had  not  come  up. 

I  felt  my  way  down  again,  one  hand  on  the  central  pillar, 
my  shoulder  against  the  outside  wall.  The  stair-foot  was 
faintly  lit  by  the  glow  from  outside,  and  on  the  bottom  step 
I  came  on  some  one,  hurt  or  dead,  just  a  dark  mass  at  my 
feet.  It  was  Master  Bertie.  I  gave  a  cry  and  leaped  over 
his  body.  The  Duchess,  brave  wife,  was  standing  before 
him,  the  halbert  which  she  had  snatched  up  presented  at 
the  doorway  and  the  howling  mob  outside. 

Fortunately  the  crowd  had  not  yet  learned  how  few  we 
were ;  nor  saw,  I  think,  that  it  was  but  a  woman  who  con- 
fronted them.  To  rush  into  the  low  doorway  and  storm  the 
narrow  winding  staircase  in  the  face  of  unknown  numbers 
was  a  task  from  which  the  bravest  veterans  might  have 
flinched,  and  the  townsfolk,  furious  as  they  were,  hung 
back.  I  took  advantage  of  the  pause.  I  grasped  the  hal- 


158  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

bert  myself  and  pushed  the  Duchess  back.  "Drag  him 
up!"  I  muttered.  "If  you  cannot  manage  it,  call  Anne!" 

But  grief  and  hard  necessity  gave  her  strength,  and, 
despite  the  noise  in  front  of  me,  I  heard  her  toil  panting  up 
with  her  burden.  When  I  judged  she  had  reached  the 
room  above,  I  too  turned  and  ran  up  after  her,  posting  my- 
self in  the  last  angle  just  below  the  room.  There  I  was 
sheltered  from  missiles  by  the  turn  in  the  staircase,  and  was 
further  protected  by  the  darkness.  Now  I  could  hold  the 
way  with  little  risk,  for  only  one  could  come  up  at  a  time, 
and  he  would  be  a  brave  man  who  should  storm  the  stairs 
in  my  teeth. 

All  this,  I  remember,  was  done  in  a  kind  of  desperate 
frenzy,  in  haste  and  confusion,  with  no  plan  or  final  pur- 
pose, but  simply  out  of  the  instinct  of  self-preservation, 
which  led  me  to  do,  from  moment  to  moment,  what  I  could 
to  save  our  lives.  I  did  not  know  whether  there  was 
another  staircase  to  the  tower,  nor  whether  there  were 
enemies  above  us;  whether,  indeed,  enemies  might  not 
swarm  in  on  us  from  a  dozen  entrances.  I  had  no  time  to 
think  of  more  than  just  this;  that  my  staircase,  of  which  I 
did  know,  must  be  held. 

I  think  I  had  stood  there  about  a  minute,  breathing  hard 
and  listening  to  the  din  outside,  which  came  to  my  ears  a 
little  softened  by  the  thick  walls  round  me — so  much  soft- 
ened, at  least,  that  I  could  hear  my  heart  beating  in  the 
midst  of  it — when  the  Duchess  came  back  to  the  door 
above.  I  could  see  her,  there  being  a  certain  amount  of 
light  in  the  room  behind  her,  but  she  could  not  see  me. 
"What  can  I  do?"  she  asked  softly. 

I  answered  by  a  question.    "Is  he  alive?"  I  muttered. 

"Yes;  but  hurt,"  she  answered,  struggling  with  a  sob, 
with  a  fluttering  of  the  woman's  heart  she  had  repressed 
so  bravely.  "Much  hurt,  I  fear!  Oh,  why,  why  did  we 
come  here?" 

She  did  not  mean  it  as  a  reproach,  but  I  took  it  as  one,  and 
braced  myself  more  firmly  to  meet  this  crisis — to  save  her  at 
least  if  it  should  be  any  way  possible.  When  she  asked 
again  "Can  I  do  anything?"  I  bade  her  take  my  pike  and 
stand  where  I  was  for  a  moment.  Since  no  enemy  had  yet 
made  his  appearance  above,  the  strength  of  our  position 
seemed  to  hold  out  some  hope,  and  it  was  the  more  essen- 


AT  BAY  IN   THE  GATEHOUSE.  159 

tial  that  I  should  understand  it  and  know  exactly  what  our 
chances  were. 

I  sprang  up  the  stairs  into  the  room  and  looked  round, 
my  eyes  seeming  to  take  in  everything  at  once.  It  was  a 
big  bare  room,  with  signs  of  habitation  only  in  one  corner. 
On  the  side  toward  the  town  was  a  long,  low  window, 
through  which — a  score  of  the  diamond  panes  were 
broken  already — the  flare  of  the  besiegers'  torches  fell  lu- 
ridly on  the  walls  and  vaulted  roof.  By  the  dull  embers  of 
a  wood  fire,  over  which  hung  a  huge  black  pot,  Master  Ber- 
tie was  lying  on  the  boards,  breathing  loudly  and  painfully, 
his  head  pillowed  on  the  Duchess's  kerchief.  Beside  him 
sat  Mistress  Anne,  her  face  hidden,  the  child  wailing  in  her 
lap.  A  glance  round  assured  me  that  there  was  no  other 
staircase,  and  that  on  the  side  toward  the  country,  the  wall 
was  pierced  with  no  window  bigger  than  a  loophole  or  an 
arrow-slit;  with  no  opening  which  even  a  boy  could  enter. 
For  the  present,  therefore,  unless  the  top  of  the  tower 
should  be  escaladed  from  the  adjacent  houses — and  I  could 
do  nothing  to  provide  against  that — we  had  nothing  to  fear 
except  from  the  staircase  and  the  window  I  have  mentioned. 
Every  moment,  however,  a  missile  or  a  shot  crashed  through 
the  latter,  adding  the  shiver  of  falling  glass  to  the  general 
din.  No  wonder  the  child  wailed  and  the  girl  sank  over  it 
in  abject  terror.  Those  savage  yells  might  well  make  a 
woman  blench.  They  carried  more  fear  and  dread  to  my 
heart  than  did  the  real  danger  of  our  position,  desperate  as 
it  was. 

And  yet  it  was  so  desperate  that,  for  a  moment,  I  leant 
against  the  wall  dazed  and  hopeless,  listening  to  the  infernal 
tumult  without  and  within.  Had  Bertie  been  by  my  siae 
to  share  the  responsibility  and  join  in  the  risk,  I  could  have 
borne  it  better.  I  might  have  felt  then  some  of  the  joy  of 
battle,  and  the  stern  pleasure  of  the  one  matched  against  the 
many.  But  I  was  alone.  How  was  I  to  save  these  women 
and  that  poor  child  from  the  yelling  crew  outside?  How 
indeed?  I  did  not  know  the  enemy's  language;  I  could 
not  communicate  with  him,  could  not  explain,  could  not 
even  cry  for  quarter  for  the  women. 

A   stone  which  glanced  from  one  of  the  mullions   and 


160  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

grazed  my  shoulder  roused  me  from  this  fit  of  cowardice, 
which,  I  trust  and  believe,  had  lasted  fora  few  seconds  only. 
At  the  same  moment  an  unusual  volley  of  missiles  tore 
through  the  window  as  if  discharged  at  a  given  signal.  We 
were  under  cover,  and  they  did  us  no  harm,  rolling  for  the 
most  part  noisily  about  the  floor.  But  when  the  storm 
ceased  and  a  calm  as  sudden  followed,  I  heard  a  dull,  regu- 
lar sound  close  to  the  window — a  thud!  thud!  thud! — and 
on  the  instant  divined  the  plan  and  the  danger.  My  cour- 
age came  back  and  with  it  my  wits.  I  remembered  an  old 
tale  I  had  heard,  and,  dropping  my  sword  where  I  stood,  I 
flew  to  the  hearth,  and  unhooked  the  great  pot.  It  was 
heavy;  half  full  of  something — broth,  most  likely;  but  I 
recked  nothing  of  that,  I  bore  it  swiftly  to  the  window,  and 
just  as  the  foremost  man  on  the  ladder  had  driven  in  the 
lead  work  before  him  with  his  ax,  flung  the  whole  of  the 
contents — they  were  not  scalding,  but  they  were  very  hot — 
in  his  face.  The  fellow  shrieked  loudly,  and,  blinded  and 
taken  by  surprise,  lost  his  hold  and  fell  against  his  sup- 
porter, and  both  tumbled  down  again  more  quickly  than 
they  had  come  up. 

Sternly  triumphant,  I  poised  the  great  pot  itself  in  my 
hands,  thinking  to  fling  it  down  upon  the  sea  of  savage  up- 
turned faces,  of  which  I  had  a  brief  view,  as  the  torches 
flared  now  on  one,  now  on  another.  But  prudence  pre- 
vailed. If  no  more  blood  were  shed  it  might  still  be  possi- 
ble to  get  some  terms.  I  laid  the  pot  down  by  the  side  of 
the  window  as  a  weapon  to  be  used  only  in  the  last  resort. 

Meanwhile  the  Duchess,  posted  in  the  dark,  had  heard 
the  noise  of  the  window  being  driven  in,  and  cried  out  piti- 
fully to  know  what  it  was.  "Stand  firm!"  I  shouted 
loudly.  "Stand  firm.  We  are  safe  as  yet." 

Even  the  uproar  without  seemed  to  abate  a  little  as  the  first 
fury  of  the  mob  died  down.  Probably  their  leaders  were  con- 
certing fresh  action.  I  went  and  knelt  beside  Master  Ber- 
tie and  made  a  rough  examination  of  his  wound.  He  had 
received  a  nasty  blow  on  the  back  of  the  head,  from  which 
the  blood  was  still  oozing,  and  he  was  insensible.  His 
face  looked  very  long  and  thin  and  deathlike.  But,  so  far 
as  I  could  ascertain,  the  bones  were  uninjured,  and  he  was 
now  breathing  more  quietly.  "I  think  he  will  recover,"  I 
said,  easing  his  clothes. 


AT  BAY   IN   THE   GATEHOUSE.  161 

Anne  was  crouching  on  the  other  side  of  him.  As  she 
did  not  answer  I  looked  up  at  her.  Her  lips  were  moving, 
but  the  only  word  I  caught  was  "Clarence!"  I  did  not 
wonder  she  was  distraught ;  I  had  work  enough  to  keep  my 
own  wits.  But  I  wanted  her  help,  and  I  repeated  loudly, 
"Anne!  Anne!"  trying  to  rouse  her. 

She  looked  past  me  shuddering.  "Heaven  forgive  you!" 
she  muttered.  "You  have  brought  me  to  this!  And  now  I 
must  die!  I  must  die  here.  In  the  net  they  have  set  for 
others  is  their  own  foot  taken!" 

She  was  quite  beside  herself  with  terror.  I  saw  that  she 
was  not  addressing  me;  and  I  had  not  time  to  make  sense 
of  her  wanderings.  I  left  her  and  went  out  to  speak  to  the 
Duchess.  Poor  woman !  even  her  brave  spirit  was  giving 
way.  I  felt  her  cold  hands  tremble  as  I  took  the  halbert 
from  her.  "Go  into  the  room  a  while,"  I  said  softly.  "He 
is  not  seriously  hurt,  I  am  sure.  I  will  guard  this.  If  any 
one  appears  at  the  window,  scream." 

She  went  gladly,  and  I  took  her  place,  having  now  to  do 
double  duty.  I  had  been  there  a  few  minutes  only,  listen- 
ing, with  my  soul  in  my  ears,  to  detect  the  first  signs  of 
attack,  either  below  me  or  in  the  room  behind,  when  I  dis- 
tinguished a  strange  rustling  sound  on  the  staircase.  It 
appeared  to  come  from  a  point  a  good  deal  below  me,  and 
probably,  whoever  made  it  was  just  within  the  doorway.  I 
peered  into  the  gloom,  but  could  see  no  one  as  yet. 
"Stand!"  I  cried  in  a  tone  of  warning.  "Who  is  that?" 

The  sound  ceased  abruptly,  but  it  left  me  uneasy.  Could 
they  be  going  to  blow  us  up  with  gunpowder?  No!  I  did 
not  think  so.  They  would  not  care  to  ruin  the  gateway  for 
the  sake  of  capturing  so  small  a  party.  And  the  tower  was 
strong.  It  would  not  be  easy  to  blow  it  up. 

Yet  in  a  short  time  the  noise  began  again ;  and  my  fears 
returned  with  it.  "Stand!"  I  cried  savagely,  "or  take 
care  of  yourself." 

The  answer  was  a  flash  of  bright  light — which  for  a  sec- 
ond showed  the  rough  stone  walls  winding  away  at  my  feet 
— a  stunning  report,  and  the  pattering  down  of  half  a  dozen 
slugs  from  the  roof.  I  laughed,  my  first  start  over.  "You 
will  have  to  come  a  little  higher  up!"  I  cried  tauntingly,  as 
I  smelt  the  fumes.  My  eyes  had  become  so  accustomed  to 
the  darkness  that  I  felt  sure  I  should  detect  an  assailant, 


1 62  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

however  warily  he  might  make  his  approach.  And  my 
halbert  was  seven  feet  long,  so  that  I  could  reach  as  far  as  I 
could  see.  I  had  had  time,  too,  to  grow  cool. 

After  this  there  was  comparative  quiet  for  another  space. 
Every  now  and  then  a  stone  or,  more  rarely,  the  ball  of  an 
arquebuse  would  come  whizzing  into  the  room  above.  But 
I  did  not  fear  this.  It  was  easy  to  keep  under  cover.  And 
their  shouting  no  longer  startled  me.  I  began  to  see  a 
glimpse  of  hope.  It  was  plain  that  the  townsfolk  were  puz- 
zled how  to  come  at  us  without  suffering  great  loss.  They 
were  unaware  of  our  numbers,  and,  as  it  proved,  believed 
that  we  had  three  uninjured  men  at  least.  The  staircase 
was  impracticable  as  a  point  of  assault,  and  the  window, 
being  only  three  feet  in  height  and  twenty  from  the  ground, 
was  not  much  better,  if  defended,  as  they  expected  it  would 
be,  by  a  couple  of  desperate  swordsmen. 

I  was  not  much  astonished,  therefore,  when  the  rustling 
sound,  beginning  again  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  came 
this  time  to  no  more  formidable  issue  than  a  hail  in  Spanish. 
"Will  you  surrender?"  the  envoy  cried. 

"No!"  I  said  roundly. 

"Who  are  you?"  was  the  next  question. 

"We  are  English!"  I  answered. 

He  went  then;  and  there  for  the  time  the  negotiations 
ended.  But,  seeing  the  dawn  of  hope,  I  was  the  more 
afraid  of  any  trap  or  surprise,  and  I  cried  to  the  Duchess  to 
be  on  her  guard.  For  this  reason,  too,  the  suspense  of  the 
next  few  minutes  was  almost  more  trying  than  anything 
which  had  gone  before.  But  the  minutes  came  at  last  to  an 
end.  A  voice  below  cried  loudly  in  English,  "Holloa!  are 
you  friends?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  replied  joyfully,  before  the  words  had  well 
ceased  to  rebound  from  the  walls.  For  the  voice  and 
accent  were  Master  Lindstrom's.  A  cry  of  relief  from  the 
room  behind  me  showed  that  there,  too,  the  speaker  was 
recognized.  The  Duchess  came  running  to  the  door,  but 
I  begged  her  to  go  back  and  keep  a  good  lookout.  And  she 
obeyed. 

"How  come  you  here?  How  has  it  happened?"  Master 
Lindstrom  asked,  his  voice,  though  he  still  remained  below, 


AT  BAY  IN  THE  GATEHOUSE.  163 

betraying  his  perplexity  and  unhappiness.  "Can  I  not  do 
something?  This  is  terrible,  indeed." 

"You  can  come  up,  if  you  like,"  I  answered,  after  a  mo- 
ment's thought.  "But  you  must  come  alone.  And  I  can- 
not let  even  you,  friend  as  you  are,  see  our  defenses." 

As  he  came  up  I  stepped  back  and  drew  the  door  of  the 
room  toward  me,  so  that,  though  a  little  light  reached  the 
head  of  the  stairs,  he  could  not,  standing  there,  see  into  the 
room  or  discern  our  real  weakness.  I  did  not  distrust  him 
— Heaven  forbid!  but  he  might  have  to  tell  all  he  saw  to  his 
friends  below,  and  I  thought  it  well,  for  his  sake  as  well  as 
our  own,  that  he  should  be  able  to  do  this  freely,  and  with- 
out hurting  us.  As  he  joined  me  I  held  up  a  finger  for 
silence  and  listened  keenly.  But  all  was  quiet  below. 
No  one  had  followed  him.  Then  I  turned  and  warmly 
grasped  his  hands,  and  we  peered  into  one  another's  faces. 
I  saw  he  was  deeply  moved ;  that  he  was  thinking  of 
Dymphna,  and  how  I  had  saved  her.  He  held  my  hands 
as  though  he  would  never  loose  them. 

"Well!"  I  said,  as  cheerfully  as  I  could,  "have  you 
brought  us  an  offer  of  terms?  But  let  me  tell  you  first," 
I  continued, "how  it  happened."  And  I  briefly  explained 
that  we  had  mistaken  the  captain  of  the  guard  and  his  two 
followers  for  Clarence  and  the  two  Spaniards.  "Is  he 
dead?"  I  continued. 

"No,  he  is  still  alive,"  Master  Lindstrom  answered 
gravely.  "But  the  townsfolk  are  furious,  and  the  seizure 
of  the  tower  has  still  further  exasperated  them.  Why  did 
you  do  it?" 

"Because  we  should  have  been  torn  to  pieces  if  we  had 
not  done  it,"  I  answered  dryly.  "You  think  we  are  in  a 
strait  place?" 

"Do  you  not  think  so  yourself?"  he  said,  somewhat 
astonished. 

I  laughed.  "That  is  as  may  be,"  I  answered  with  an 
affectation  of  recklessness.  "The  staircase  is  narrow  and 
the  window  low.  We  shall  sell  our  lives  dearly,  my  friend. 
Yet,  for  the  sake  of  the  women  who  are  with  us,  we  are 
willing  to  surrender  if  the  citizens  offer  us  terms.  After 
all,  it  was  an  accident.  Cannot  you  impress  this  on  them?" 
I  added  eagerly. 


1 64  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

He  shook  his  head.  "They  will  not  hear  reason,"  he 
said. 

"Then,"  I  replied,  "impress  the  other  thing  upon  them. 
Tell  them  that  our  swords  are  sharp  and  we  are  desperate." 

"I  will  see  what  I  can  do,"  he  answered  slowly.  "The 
Duke  of  Cleves  is  expected  here  to-morrow,  and  the  towns- 
folk feel  they  would  be  disgraced  forever  if  he  should  find 
their  gate  held  by  a  party  of  marauders,  as  they  consider 
you." 

"The  Duke  of  Cleves?"  I  repeated.  "Perhaps  he  may 
be  better  affected  toward  us." 

"They  will  overpower  you  before  he  comes,"  Master 
Lindstrom  answered  despondently.  "I  would  put  no  trust 
in  him  if  I  were  you.  But  I  will  go  to  them,  and,  believe 
me,  I  will  do  all  that  man  can  do." 

"Of  that  I  am  sure,"  I  said  warmly.  And  then,  caution- 
ing me  to  remain  strictly  on  the  defensive,  he  left  me. 

Before  his  footsteps  had  ceased  to  echo  on  the  stairs  the 
door  beside  me  opened,  and  Mistress  Anne  appeared  at  it. 
I  saw  at  once  that  his  familiar  voice  had  roused  her  from 
the  stupor  of  fear  in  which  I  had  last  seen  her.  Her  eyes 
were  bright,  her  whole  frame  was  thrilling  with  excitement, 
hope,  suspense.  I  began  to  understand  her;  to  discern 
beneath  the  disguise  thrown  over  it  in  ordinary  times  by  a 
strong  will,  the  nervous  nature  which  was  always  confident 
or  despairing,  which  felt  everything  so  keenly — everything, 
that  is,  which  touched  itself.  "Well?"  she  cried,  "well?" 

"Patience!  patience!"  I  replied  rather  sharply.  I  could 
not  help  comparing  her  conduct  with  that  of  the  Duchess, 
and  blaming  her,  not  for  her  timidity,  but  for  the  selfish- 
ness which  she  had  betrayed  in  her  fear.  I  could  fancy 
Petronilla  trembling  and  a  coward,  but  not  despairing  nor 
utterly  cast  down,  nor  useless  when  others  needed  her,  nor 
wrapped  in  her  own  terrors  to  the  very  exclusion  of  reason. 
"Patience!"  I  said;  "he  is  coming  back.  He  and  his 
friends  will  do  all  they  can  for  us.  We  must  wait  a  while 
and  hope,  and  keep  a  good  lookout." 

She  had  her  hand  on  the  door,  and  by  an  abrupt  move- 
ment, she  slipped  out  to  me  and  closed  it  behind  her.  This 
made  the  staircase  so  dark  that  I  could  no  longer  distin- 
guish her  face,  but  I  judged  from  her  tone  that  her  fears 


AT  BAY  IN   THE   GATEHOUSE.  165 

were  regaining  possession  of  her.  "Clarence,"  she  mut- 
ted,  her  voice  low  and  trembling.  "Have  you  thought  of 
him?  Could  not  he  help  us?  He  may  have  followed  us 
here,  and  may  be  here  now.  Now!  And  perhaps  he  does 
not  know  in  what  danger  we  are." 

"Clarence!"  I  said,  astonished  and  almost  angry. 
"Clarence  help  us?  Go  back,  girl,  go  back.  You  are 
mad.  He  would  be  more  likely  to  complete  our  ruin.  Go 
in  and  nurse  the  baby!"  I  added  bitterly. 

What  could  she  mean,  I  asked  myself,  when  she  had  gone 
in.  Was  there  anything  in  her  suggestion?  Would  Clar- 
ence follow  us  hither?  If  so,  and  if  he  should  come  in 
time,  would  he  have  power  to  help  us,  using  such  mysterious 
influence,  Spanish  or  English,  as  he  seemed  to  possess? 
And  if  he  could  help  us,  would  it  be  better  to  fall  into  his 
hands  than  into  those  of  the  exasperated  Santonese?  I 
thought  the  Duchess  would  say  "No!" 

So  it  mattered  not  what  I  answered  myself.  I  hoped, 
now  Master  Lindstrom  had  appeared,  that  the  women  would 
be  allowed  to  go  free ;  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  to  surrender 
to  Clarence  would  be  to  hand  over  the  Duchess  to  her  en- 
emy simply  that  the  rest  of  us  might  escape. 

Master  Lindstrom  returned  while  I  was  still  considering 
this,  and,  observing  the  same  precautions  as  before,  I  bade 
him  join  me.  "Well?"  I  said,  not  so  impetuously,  I  hope, 
as  Mistress  Anne,  yet  I  dare  say  with  a  good  deal  of  eager- 
ness. "Well,  what  do  they  say?"  For  he  was  slow  to 
speak. 

"I  have  bad  news,"  he  answered  gently. 

"Ah!"  I  ejaculated,  a  lump  which  was  due  as  much  to 
rage  as  to  any  other  emotion  rising  in  my  throat.  "So  they 
will  give  us  no  terms?  Then  so  be  it!  Let  them  come 
and  take  us." 

"Nay,"  he  hastened  to  answer.  "It  is  not  so  bad  as 
that,  lad.  They  are  fathers  and  husbands  themselves,  and 
not  lanzknechts.  They  will  suffer  the  women  to  go  free, 
and  will  even  let  me  take  charge  of  them  if  necessary." 

"They  will!"  I  exclaimed,  overjoyed.  I  wondered  why 
on  earth  he  had  hesitated  to  tell  me  this.  "Why,  that  is 
the  main  point,  friend." 

"Yes,"  he  said  gravely,  "perhaps  so.  More,  the  men 
may  go  too,  if  the  tower  be  surrendered  within  an  hour. 


1 66  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

With  one  exception,  that  is.     The  man  who  struck  the  blow 
must  be  given  up." 

"The  man  who  struck  the  blow!"  I  repeated  slowly. 
"Do  you  mean — you  mean  the  man  who  cut  the  patrol 
down?" 

"Yes,"  he  said.  He  was  peering  very  closely  at  me,  as 
though  he  would  learn  from  my  face  who  it  was.  And  I 
stood  thinking.  This  was  as  much  as  we  could  expect.  I 
divined,  and  most  truly,  that  but  for  the  honest  Dutchman's 
influence,  promises,  perhaps  bribes,  such  terms  would  never 
have  been  offered  to  us  by  the  men  who  hours  before  had 
driven  us  to  hold  as  if  we  had  been  vermin.  Yet  give  up 
Master  Bertie?  "What,"  I  said,  "will  be  done  to  him? 
The  man  who  must  be  given  up,  I  mean?"  Master  Lind- 
strom  shook  his  head.  "It  was  an  accident,"  I  urged,  my 
eyes  on  his. 

He  grasped  my  hand  firmly,  and,  turning  away  his  face, 
seemed  for  a  while  unable  to  speak.  At  last  he  whispered, 
"He  must  suffer  for  the  others,  lad.  I  fear  so.  It  is  a 
hard  fate,  a  cruel  fate.  But  I  can  do  no  more.  They  will 
not  hear  me  on  this.  It  is  true  he  will  be  first  tried  by  the 
magistrate,  but  there  is  no  hope.  They  are  very  hard." 

My  heart  sank.  I  stood  irresolute,  pondering  on  what 
we  ought  to  do,  pondering  on  what  I  should  say  to  the  wife 
who  so  loved  the  man  who  must  die.  What  could  I  say? 
Yet,  somehow  I  must  break  the  news.  I  asked  Master 
Lindstrom  to  wait  where  he  was  while  I  consulted  the  oth- 
ers, adding,  "You  will  answer  for  it  that  there  will  be  no 
attack  while  you  are  here,  I  suppose?" 

"I  will,"  he  said.  I  knew  I  could  trust  him,  and  I  went 
in  to  the  Duchess,  closing  the  door  behind  me.  A  change 
had  come  over  the  room  since  I  had  left  it.  The  moon  had 
risen  and  was  flinging  its  cold  white  light  through  the 
twisted  and  shattered  framework  of  the  window,  to  fall  in 
three  bright  panels  on  the  floor.  The  torches  in  the  street 
had  for  the  most  part  burned  out,  or  been  extinguished.  In 
place  of  the  red  glare,  the  shouts  and  the  crash  of  glass,  the . 
atmosphere  of  battle  and  strife  I  had  left,  I  found  this 
silvery  light  and  a  stillness  made  more  apparent  by  the  dis- 
tant hum  of  many  voices. 

Mistress  Anne  was  standing  just  within  the  threshold,  her 
face  showing  pale  against  the  gloom,  her  hands  clasped. 


AT  BAY  IN    7 'HE   GATEHOUSE.  167 

The  Duchess  was  kneeling  by  her  husband,  but  she  looked 
up  as  I  entered. 

"They  will  let  us  all  go,"  I  said  bluntly;  it  was  best  to 
tell  the  tale  at  once — '  'except  the  one  who  hurt  the  patrol, 
that  is." 

It  was  strange  how  differently  the  two  women  received 
the  news;  while  Mistress  Anne  flung  her  hands  to  her  face 
with  a  sobbing  cry  o.f  thankfulness,  and  leaned  against  the 
wall  crying  and  shaking,  my  lady  stood  up  straight  and 
still,  breathing  hard  but  saying  nothing.  I  saw  that  she  did 
not  need  to  ask  what  would  be  done  to  the  one  who  was 
excepted.  She  knew.  "No,"  she  murmured  at  last,  her 
hands  pressed  to  her  bosom,  "we  cannot  doit!  Oh,  no, 
no!" 

"I  fear  we  must,"  I  said  gently — calmly,  too,  I  think. 
Yet  in  saying  it  I  was  not  quite  myself.  An  odd  sensation 
was  growing  upon  me  in  the  stillness  of  the  room.  I  began 
on  a  sudden,  I  did  not  know  why,  to  thrill  with  excitement, 
to  tremble  with  nervousness,  such  as  would  rather  have 
become  one  of  the  women  than  a  man.  My  head  grew  hot, 
my  heart  began  to  beat  quickly.  I  caught  myself  looking 
out,  listening,  waiting  for  something  to  happen,  something 
to  be  said.  It  was  something  more  terrible,  as  it  seemed  to 
me,  than  the  din  and  crash  of  the  worst  moments  of  the  as- 
sault. What  was  it?  What  was  it  that  was  threatening  my 
being?  An  instant  and  I  knew. 

"Oh,  no,  never!"  cried  the  Duchess  again,  her  voice 
quivering,  her  face  full  of  keenest  pain.  "We  will 
not  give  you  up.  We  will  stand  or  fall  together, 
friend." 

Give  you  up!  Give  you  up!  Ha!  The  veil  was  lifted 
now,  and  I  saw  what  the  something  with  the  cold  breath 
going  before  it  was.  I  looked  quietly  from  her  to  her  hus- 
band; and  I  asked — I  fancy  she  thought  my  question 
strangely  irrelevant  at  that  moment,  "How  is  he?  Is  he 
better?" 

"Much  better.  He  knew  me  for  a  moment,"  she  an- 
swered. "Then  he  seemed  to  sink  away  again.  But  his 
eyes  were  quite  clear." 

I  stood  gazing  down  at  his  thin  face,  which  had  ever 
looked  so  kindly  into  mine.  My  fingers  played  idly  witb 


1 68  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

the  knot  of  my  sword.  "He  will  live?"  I  asked  abruptly, 
harshly. 

She  started  at  the  sudden  question.  But,  brutal  as  it 
must  have  sounded,  she  was  looking  at  me  in  pity  so  great 
and  generous  that  it  did  not  wound  her.  "Oh,  yes,"  she 
said,  her  eyes  still  clinging  to  me.  "I  think  he  will  live, 
thank  Heaven!" 

Thank  Heaven!     Ah,  yes,  thank  Heaven! 

I  turned  and  went  slowly  toward  the  door.  But  before  I 
reached  it  she  was  at  my  side,  nay,  was  on  her  knees  by  me, 
clasping  my  hand,  looking  up  to  me  with  streaming  eyes. 
"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  cried,  reading,  I  suppose, 
something  in  my  face. 

"I  will  see  if  Master  Lindstrom  cannot  get  better  terms 
for  us,"  I  answered. 

She  rose,  still  detaining  me.  "You  are  sure?"  she  said, 
still  eying  me  jealously. 

"Quite  sure,"  I  answered,  forcing  a  smile.  "I  will 
come  back  and  report  to  you." 

She  let  me  go  then,  and  I  went  out  and  joined  Lindstrom 
on  the  staircase. 

"Are  you  certain,"  I  asked,  speaking  in  a  whisper,  "that 
they  will — that  the  town  will  keep  its  word  and  let  the 
others  go?" 

"I  am  quite  sure  of  it,"  he  replied  nodding.  "They  are 
Germans,  and  hard  and  pitiless,  but  you  may  trust  them. 
So  far  I  will  answer  for  thim." 

"Then  we  accept,"  I  said  gravely.  "I  give  myself  up. 
Let  them  take  me." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

BEFORE    THE   COURT. 

I  HAD  not  seen  the  first  moonbeams  pierce  the  broken 
casement  of  the  tower-room,  but  I  was  there  to  watch 
the  last  tiny  patch  of  silver  glide  aslant  from  wall  to  sill,  and 
sill  to  frame,  and  so  pass  out.  Near  the  fire,  which  had 
been  made  up,  and  now  glowed  and  crackled  bravely  on  the 
hearthstone  at  my  elbow,  my  three  jailers  had  set  a  mattress 
for  me ;  and  on  this  I  sat,  my  back  to  the  wall  and  my  face 
to  the  window.  The  guards  lounged  on  the  other  side  of 
the  hearth  round  a  lantern,  playing  at  dice  and  drinking. 
They  were  rough,  hard  men,  whose  features,  as  they  leaned 
over  the  table  and  the  light  played  strongly  on  their  faces, 
blazoning  them  against  a  wall  of  shadow,  were  stern  and 
rugged  enough.  But  they  had  not  shown  themselves  un- 
kindly. They  had  given  me  a  share  of  their  wine,  and  had 
pointed  to  the  window  and  shrugged  their  shoulders,  as 
much  as  to  say  that  it  was  my  own  fault  if  I  suffered  from 
the  draught.  Nay,  from  time  to  time,  one  of  them  would 
turn  from  his  game  and  look  at  me — in  pity,  I  think — and 
utter  a  curse  that  was  meant  for  encouragement. 

Even  when  the  first  excitement  had  passed  away,  I  felt 
none  of  the  stupefaction  which  I  have  heard  that  men  feel 
in  such  a  position.  My  brain  was  painfully  active.  In  vain 
I  longed  to  sleep,  if  it  were  only  that  I  might  not  be  thought 
to  fear  death.  But  the  fact  that  I  was  to  be  tried  first, 
though  the  sentence  was  a  certainty,  distracted  and  troubled 
me.  My  thoughts  paced  from  thing  to  thing;  now  dwelling 
on  the  Duchess  and  her  husband,  now  flitting  to  Petronilla 
and  Sir  Anthony,  to  the  old  place  at  home  and  the  servants; 
to  strange  petty  things,  long  familiar — a  tree  in  the  chase  at 
Coton,  an  herb  I  had  planted.  Once  a  great  lump  rose  in 
my  throat,  and  I  had  to  turn  away  to  hide  the  hot  tears  that 
would  rise  at  the  thought  that  I  must  die  in  this  mean  Ger- 
man town,  in  this  unknown  corner,  and  be  buried  and  for- 


*7°  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

gotten !  And  once,  too,  to  torment  me,  there  rose  a  doubt 
in  my  mind  whether  Master  Bertie  would  recover;  whether, 
indeed,  I  had  not  thrown  my  life  away  for  nothing.  But  it 
was  too  late  to  think  of  that!  And  the  doubt,  which  the 
Evil  One  himself  must  have  suggested,  so  terrible  was  it 
passed  away  quickly. 

My  thoughts  raced,  but  the  night  crawled.  We  had  sur- 
rendered about  ten,  and  the  magistrates,  less  pitiful  than 
the  jailers,  had  forbidden  my  friends  to  stay  with  me.  An 
hour  or  more  after  midnight,  two  of  the  men  lay  down  and 
the  other  sat  humming  a  drinking-song,  or  at  intervals  rose 
to  yawn  and  stretch  himself  and  look  out  of  the  window. 
From  time  to  time,  the  cry  of  the  watchman  going  his  rounds 
came  drearily  to  my  ears,  recalling  to  me  the  night  I  had 
spent  behind  the  boarding  in  Moorgate  Street,  when  the 
adventure  which  was  to  end  to-morrow — nay,  to-day — in 
a  few  hours — had  lured  me  away.  To-day?  Was  I  to 
die  to-day?  To  perish  with  all  my  plans,  hopes,  love?  It 
seemed  impossible.  As  I  gazed  at  the  window,  whose 
shape  began  to  be  printed  on  my  brain,  it  seemed  impossi- 
ble. My  soul  so  rose  in  rebellion  against  it,  that  the  per- 
spiration stood  on  my  brow,  and  I  had  to  clasp  my  hands 
about  my  knees,  and  strain  every  muscle  to  keep  in  the  cry 
I  would  have  uttered !  a  cry,  not  of  fear,  but  of  rage  and 
remonstrance  and  revolt. 

I  was  glad  to  see  the  first  streaks  of  dawn,  to  hear  the 
first  cock-crowings,  and,  a  few  minutes  later,  the  voices  of 
men  in  the  street  and  on  the  stairs.  The  sounds  of  day  and 
life  acted  magically  upon  me.  The  horror  of  the  night 
passed  off  as  does  the  horror  of  a  dream.  When  a  man, 
heavily  cloaked  and  with  his  head  covered,  came  in,  the 
door  being  shut  behind  him  by  another  hand,  I  looked  up 
at  him  bravely.  The  worst  was  past. 

He  replied  by  looking  down  at  me  for  a  few  moments 
without  disclosing  himself,  the  collar  of  his  cloak  being 
raised  so  high  that  I  could  see  nothing  of  his  features.  My 
first  notion  that  he  must  be  Master  Lindstrom  passed  away; 
and,  displeased  by  his  silent  scrutiny,  and  thinking  him  a 
stranger,  I  said  sharply,  "I  hope  you  are  satisfied,  sir." 

"  Satisfied  ? "  he  replied,  in  a  voice  which  made  me  start 
so  that  the  irons  clanked  on  my  feet,  "  Well,  I  think  I 
should  be— seeing  you  so,  my  friend  !  " 


BEFQRE  THE  COURT.  171 

It  was  Clarence!  Of  all  men,  Clarence!  I  knew  his 
voice,  and  he,  seeing  himself  recognized,  lowered  his  cloak. 
I  stared  at  him  in  stupefied  silence,  and  he  at  me  in  a  grim 
curiosity.  I  was  not  prepared  for  the  blunt  abruptness  with 
which  he  continued — using  almost  the  very  words  he  had 
used  when  face  to  face  with  me  in  the  flood:  "Now  tell  me 
who  you  are,  and  what  brought  you  into  this  company?" 

I  gave  him  no  answer.     I  sti!!  stared  at  him  in  silence. 

"Come!"  he  continued,  his  hawk's  eyes  bent  on  my 
face,  "make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  and  perhaps — who  knows? 
I  may  help  you  yet,  lad.  You  have  puzzled  and  foiled  me, 
and  I  want  to  understand  you.  Where  did  my  lady  pick 
you  up  just  when  she  wanted  you?  I  had  arranged  for 
every  checker  on  the  board  except  you.  Who  are  you?" 

This  time  I  did  answer  him — by  a  question.  "How 
many  times  have  we  met?"  I  asked. 

"Three,"  he  said  readily,  "and  the  last  time  you  nearly 
rid  the  world  of  me.  Now  the  luck  is  against  you.  It 
generally  is  in  the  end  against  those  who  thwart  me,  my 
friend."  He  chuckled  at  the  conceit,  and  I  read  in  his 
face  at  once  his  love  of  intrigue  and  his  vanity.  "I  come 
uppermost,  as  always." 

I  only  nodded. 

"What  do  you  want?"  I  asked.  I  felt  a  certain  expec- 
tation. He  wanted  something. 

"First,  to  know  who  you  are." 

"I  shall  not  tell  you!"  I  answered. 

He  smiled  dryly,  sitting  opposite  to  me.  He  had  drawn 
up  a  stool,  and  made  himself  comfortable.  He  was  not  an 
uncomely  man  as  he  sat  there  playing  with  his  dagger,  a 
dubious  smile  on  his  lean,  dark  face.  Unwarned,  I  might 
have  been  attracted  by  the  masterful  audacity,  the  intellect 
as  well  as  the  force  which  I  saw  stamped  on  his  features. 
Being  warned,  I  read  cunning  in  his  bold  eyes,  and  cruelty 
in  the  curl  of  his  lip.  "What  do  you  want  next?"  I  asked. 

"I  want  to  save  your  life,"  he  replied  lightly. 

At  that  I  started — I  could  not  help  it. 

"Ha!  ha!"  he  laughed,  "I  thought  the  stoicism  did  not 
go  quite  down  to  the  bottom,  my  lad.  But  there,  it  is  true 
enough,  I  have  come  to  help  you.  I  have  come  to  save  your 
life  if  you  will  let  me." 

I  strove  in  vain  to  keep  entire  mastery  over  myself.     The 


172  THE  STOR  Y  OF  FRANCIS  CL UDDE. 

feelings  to  which  he  appealed  were  too  strong  for  me.  My 
voice  sounded  strange,  even  in  my  own  ears,  as  I  said 
hoarsely,  "It  is  impossible!  What  can  you  do?" 

"What  can  I  do?"  he  answered  with  a  stern  smile. 
"Much!  I  have,  boy,  a  dozen  strings  in  my  hands,  and  a 
neck — a  life  at  the  end  of  each!" 

He  raised  his  hand,  and  extending  the  fingers,  moved 
them  to  and  fro. 

"See!  see!  A  life,  a  death !"  he  exclaimed.  "And  for 
you,  I  can  and  will  save  your  life — on  one  condition." 

"On  one  condition?"  I  murmured. 

"Ay,  on  one  condition;  but  it  is  a  very  easy  one.  I  will 
save  your  life  on  my  part ;  and  you,  on  yours,  must  give  me 
a  little  assistance.  Do  you  see?  Then  we  shall  be  quits." 

"I  do  not  understand,"  I  said  dully.  I  did  not.  His 
words  had  set  my  heart  fluttering  so  that  I  could  for  the 
moment  take  in  only  one  idea — that  here  was  a  new  hope 
of  life. 

"It  is  very  simple,"  he  resumed,  speaking  slowly.  "Cer- 
tain plans  of  mine  require  that  I  should  get  your  friend  the 
Duchess  conveyed  back  to  England.  But  for  you  I  should 
have  succeeded  before  this.  In  what  you  have  hindered 
me,  you  can  now  help  me.  You  have  their  confidence  and 
great  influence  with  them.  All  I  ask  is  that  you  will  use 
that  influence  so  that  they  may  be  at  a  certain  place  at  a 
certain  hour.  I  will  contrive  the  rest.  It  shall  never  be 
known,  I  promise  you,  that  you " 

"Betrayed  them!" 

"Well,  gave  me  some  information,"  he  said  lightly,  puffing 
away  my  phrase. 

"No.     Betrayed  them!"  I  persisted. 

"Put  it  so,  if  you  please,"  he  replied,  shrugging  his 
shoulders  and  raising  his  eyebrows.  "What  is  in  a  word?" 

"You  are  the  tempter  himself,  I  think!"  I  cried  in  bitter 
•rage — for  it  was  bitter — bitter,  indeed,  to  feel  that  new-born 
hope  die  out.  "But  you  come  to  me  in  vain.  I  defy 
you!" 

"Softly!   softly!"  he  answered  with  calmness. 

Yet  I  saw  a  little  pulse  beating  in  his  cheek  that  seemed 
to  tell  of  some  emotion  kept  in  subjection. 

"It  frightens  you  at  first,"  he  said.  "But  listen.  You 
will  do  them  no  harm,  and  yourself  good.  J  shall  get  them 


BEFORE  THE  COURT.  173 

anyway,  both  the  Duchess  and  her  husband;  though,  with- 
out your  aid,  it  will  be  more  difficult.  Why,  help  of  that 
kind  is  given  every  day.  They  need  never  know  it.  Even 

now  there  is  one  of  whom  you  little  dream  who  has " 

"Silence!"   I  cried  fiercely.      "I  care  not.     Idefyyou!" 
I  could  think  of  only  one  thing.     I  was  wild  with  rage 
and  disappointment.     His  words  had  aggravated  the  pain 
of  every  regret,  every  clinging  to  life  I  felt. 

"Go!"  I  cried.      "Go  and  leave  me,  you  villain!" 
"If  I  do  leave  you,"  he  said,  fixing  his  eyes  on  me,  "it 
will  be,  my  friend — to  death." 

"Then  so  be  it!"  I  answered  wildly.  "So  be  it!  I  will 
keep  my  honor." 

"Your  honor!"  The  mask  dropped  from  his  face,  and 
he  sneered  as  he  rose  from  his  seat.  A  darker  scowl 
changed  and  disfigured  his  brow,  as  he  lost  hope  of  gaining 
me.  "Your  honor?  Where  will  it  be  by  to-night?"  he 
hissed,  his  eyes  glowering  down  at  me.  "Where  a  week 
hence,  when  you  will  be  cast  into  a  pit  and  forgotten?  Your 
honor,  fool?  What  is  the  honor  of  a  dead  man?  Pah! 
But  die,  then,  if  you  will  have  it  so!  Die,  like  the  brainless 
brute  you  are!  And  rot,  and  be  forgotten!"  he  concluded 
passionately. 

They  were  terrible  words ;  more  terrible  I  know  now  than 
either  he  or  I  understood  then.  They  so  shook  me  that 
when  he  was  gone  I  crouched  trembling  on  my  pallet,  hid- 
ing my  face  in  a  fit  of  horror — taking  no  heed  of  my  jailers 
or  of  appearances.  "Die  and  be  forgotten!  Die  and  be 
forgotten!"  The  doom  rang  in  my  ears. 

Something  which  seemed  to  me  angelic  roused  me  from 
this  misery.  It  was  the  sound  of  a  kindly,  familiar  voice 
speaking  English.  I  looked  up  and  found  the  Dutchman 
bending  over  me  with  a  face  of  infinite  distress.  With  him, 
but  rather  behind  him,  stood  Van  Tree,  pale  and  vicious- 
eyed,  tugging  his  scanty  chin-beard  and  gazing  about  him 
like  a  dog  seeking  some  one  to  fasten  upon.  "Poor  lad! 
poor  lad!"  the  old  man  said,  his  voice  shaking  as  he 
looked  at  me. 

I  sprang  to  my  feet,  the  irons  rattling  as  I  dashed  my 
hand  across  my  eyes. 

"It  is  all  right!"  I  said  hurriedly.     "I  had  a — but  never 


174  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

oiind  that.  It  was  like  a  dream.  Only  tell  the  Duchess  to 
look  to  herself,"  I  continued,  still  rather  vehemently. 
"Clarence  is  here.  He  is  in  Santon.  I  have  seen  him." 

"You  have  seen  him?"  both  the  Dutchmen  cried  at  once. 

"Ay!"  I  said,  with  a  laugh  that  was  three  parts  hysteri- 
cal— indeed,  I  was  still  tingling  all  over  with  excitement. 
"He  has  been  here  to  offer  me  my  life  if  I  would  help  him 
in  his  schemes.  I  told  him  he  was  the  tempter,  and  defied 
him.  And  he — he  said  I  should  die  and  be  forgotten!"  I 
added,  trembling,  yet  laughing  wildly  at  the  same  time. 

"I  think  he  is  the  tempter!"  said  Master  Lindstrom 
solemnly,  his  face  very  grim.  "And  therefore  a  liar  and 
the  father  of  lies!  You  may  die,  lad,  to-day;  perhaps  you 
must.  But  forgotten  you  shall  not  be,  while  we  live,  or 
one  of  us  lives,  or  one  of  the  children  who  shall  come 
after  us.  He  is  a  liar!" 

I  got  my  hands,  with  a  struggle,  from  the  old  man,  and 
turning  my  back  upon  him,  went  and  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow. The  sun  was  rising.  The  tower  of  the  great  minster, 
seen  row  for  the  first  time,  rose  in  stately  brightness  above 
the  red  roofs  and  quaint  gables  and  the  rows  of  dormer  win- 
dows. Down  in  the  streets  the  grayness  and  chill  yet  lin- 
gered. But  above  was  a  very  glory  of  light  and  warmth 
and  color — the  rising  of  the  May  sun.  When  I  turned 
round  I  was  myself  again.  The  calm  beauty  of  that  sight 
had  stolen  into  my  soul.  "Is  it  time?"  I  said  cheerfully. 
For  the  crowd  was  gathering  below,  and  there  were  voices 
and  feet  on  the  stairs. 

"I  think  it  is,"  Master  Lindstrom  answered.  "We  have 
obtained  leave  to  go  with  you.  You  need  fear  no  violence 
in  the  streets,  for  the  man  who  was  hurt  is  still  alive  and 
may  recover.  I  have  been  with  the  magistrates  this  morn- 
ing," he  continued,  '  'and  found  them  better  disposed  to  you ; 
but  the  Sub-dean  has  joint  jurisdiction  with  them,  as  the 
deputy  of  the  Bishop  of  Arras,  who  is  dean  of  the  minster; 
and  he  is,  for  some  reason,  very  bitter  against  you." 

"The  Bishop  of  Arras?  Granville,  do  you  mean?"  I 
asked.  I  knew  the  name  of  the  Emperor's  shrewd  and 
powerful  minister,  by  whose  advice  the  Netherlands  were 
at  this  time  ruled. 

"The  same.  He,  of  course,  is  not  here,  but  his  deputy 
is.  Were  it  not  for  him But  there,  it  is  no  good  talking 


BEFORE  THE  COURT.  *75 

of  that!"  the  Dutchman  said,  breaking  off  and  rubbing  his 
head  in  his  chagrin. 

One  of  the  guards  who  had  spent  the  night  with  me 
brought  me  at  this  moment  a  bowl  of  broth  with  a  piece  of 
bread  in  it.  I  could  not  eat  the  bread,  but  I  drank  the 
broth  and  felt  the  better  for  it.  Having  in  my  pocket  a 
little  money  with  which  the  Duchess  had  furnished  me,  I 
put  a  silver  piece  in  the  bowl  and  handed  it  back  to  him. 
The  man  seemed  astonished,  and  muttered  something  in 
German  as  he  turned  away. 

"What  did  he  say?"   I  asked  the  Dutchman. 

"Oh,  nothing,  nothing,"  he  answered. 

"But  what  was  it?  It  was  something,"  I  persisted,  see- 
ing him  confused. 

"He — well,  he  said  he  would  have  a  mass  said  for  you!" 
Lindstrom  answered  in  despair.  "It  will  do  no  harm." 

"No,  why  should  it?"  I  replied  mechanically. 

We  were  in  the  street  by  this  time,  Master  Lindstrom  and 
Van  Tree  walking  beside  me  in  the  middle  of  a  score  of 
soldiers,  who  seemed  to  my  eyes  fantastically  dressed.  I 
remarked,  as  we  passed  out,  a  tall  man  clothed  in  red  and 
black,  who  was  standing  by  the  door  as  if  waiting  to  fall  in 
behind  me.  He  carried  on  his  shoulder  a  long  broad-bladed 
sword,  and  I  guessed  who  he  was,  seeing  how  Master  Lind- 
strom strove  to  intercept  my  view  of  him.  But  I  was  not 
afraid  of  that.  I  had  heard  long  ago — perhaps  six  months 
in  time,  but  it  seemed  long  ago — how  bravely  Queen  Jane 
had  died.  And  if  a  girl  had  not  trembled,  surely  a  man 
should  not.  So  I  looked  steadfastly  at  him,  and  took  great 
courage,  and  after  that  was  able  to  gaze  calmly  on  the  peo- 
ple, who  pressed  to  stare  at  me,  peeping  over  the  soldiers' 
shoulders,  and  clustering  in  every  doorway  and  window  to 
see  me  go  past.  They  were  all  silent,  and  it  even  seemed 
to  me  that  some — but  this  may  have  been  my  fancy — pitied 
me. 

I  saw  nothing  of  the  Duchess,  and  might  have  wondered, 
had  not  Master  Lindstrom  explained  that  he  had  contrived 
to  keep  her  in  ignorance  of  the  hour  fixed  for  the  proceed- 
ings. Her  husband  was  better,  he  said,  and  conscious; 
but,  for  fear  of  exciting  him,  they  were  keeping  the  news 
from  him  also.  I  remember  I  felt  for  a  moment  very  sore 


176  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

at  this,  and  then  I  tried  to  persuade  myself  that  it  was 
right. 

The  distance  through  the  streets  was  short,  and  almost 
before  I  was  aware  of  it  I  was  in  the  court-house,  the  guard 
had  fallen  back,  and  I  was  standing  before  three  persons 
who  were  seated  behind  a  long  table.  Two  of  them  were 
grave,  portly  men  wearing  flat  black  caps  and  scarlet  robes, 
with  gold  chains  about  their  necks.  The  third,  dressed 
as  an  ecclesiastic,  wore  a  huge  gem  ring  upon  his  thumb. 
Behind  them  stood  three  attendants  holding  a  sword,  a 
crosier,  and  a  ducal  cap  upon  a  cushion ;  and  above  and 
behind  all  was  a  lofty  stained  window,  whose  rich  hues,  the 
sun  being  low  as  yet,  shot  athwart  the  corbels  of  the  roof. 
At  the  end  of  the  table  sat  a  black-robed  man  with  an  ink- 
horn  and  spectacles,  a  grave,  still,  down -looking  man;  and 
the  crowd  being  behind  me,  and  preserving  a  dead  silence, 
and  the  attendants  standing  like  statues,  I  seemed  indeed  to 
be  alone  with  these  four  at  the  table,  and  the  great  stained 
window  and  the  solemn  hush.  They  talked  to  one  another 
in  low  tones  for  a  minute,  gazing  at  me  the  while.  And  I 
fancied  they  were  astonished  to  find  me  so  young. 

At  length  they  all  fell  back  into  their  chairs.  "Do  you 
speak  German?"  the  eldest  burgher  said,  addressing  me 
gravely.  He  sat  in  the  middle,  with  the  Sub-dean  on  his 
right. 

"No;  but  I  speak  and  understand  Spanish,"  I  answered 
in  that  language,  feeling  chilled  already  by  the  stern  for- 
mality which  like  an  iron  hand  was  laying  its  grip  upon  me. 

"Good!     Your  name?"  replied  the  president. 

"I  am  commonly  called  Francis  Carey,  and  I  am  an  Eng- 
lishman." The  Sub-dean — he  was  a  pale,  stout  man,  with 
gloomy  eyes — had  hitherto  been  looking  at  me  in  evident 
doubt.  But  at  this  he  nodded  assent,  and,  averting  his 
eyes  from  me,  gazed  meditatively  at  the  roof  of  the  hall, 
considering  apparently  what  he  should  have  for  breakfast. 

"You  are  charged,"  said  the  president  slowly,  consulting 
a  document,  "with  having  assaulted  and  wounded  in  the 
highway  last  night  one  Heinrich  Schroder,  a  citizen  of  this 
town,  acting  at  the  time  as  Lieutenant  of  the  Night  Guard. 
Do  you  admit  this,  prisoner,  or  do  you  require  proof?" 

"He  was  wounded,"  I  answered  steadily,  "but  by  mis- 
take, and  in  error.  I  supposed  him  to  be  one  of  three  per- 


BEFORE  THE  COURT.  177 

sons  who  had  unlawfully  waylaid  me  and  my  party  on  the 
previous  night  between  Emmerich  and  Wesel." 

The  Sub-dean,  still  gazing  at  the  roof,  shook  his  head 
with  a  faint  smile.  The  other  magistrates  looked  doubt- 
fully at  me,  but  made  no  comment,  and  my  words  seemed 
to  be  wasted  on  the  silence.  The  president  consulted  his 
document  again,  and  continued:  "You  are  also  charged 
with  having  by  force  of  arms,  in  time  of  peace,  seized  a 
gate  of  this  town,  and  maintained  it,  and  declined  to  sur- 
render it  when  called  upon  so  to  do.  What  do  you  say  to 
that?" 

"It  is  true  in  part,"  I  answered  firmly.  "I  seized  not 
the  gate,  but  part  of  the  tower,  in  order  to  preserve  my  life 
and  to  protect  certain  ladies  traveling  with  me  from  the 
violence  of  a  crowd  which,  under  a  misapprehension,  was 
threatening  to  do  us  a  mischief." 

The  priest  again  shook  his  head,  and  smiled  faintly  at  the 
carved  roof.  His  colleagues  were  perhaps  somewhat  moved 
in  my  favor,  for  a  few  words  passed  between  them.  How- 
ever, in  the  end  they  shook  their  heads,  and  the  president 
mechanically  asked  me  if  I  had  anything  further  to 
say. 

"Nothing!"  I  replied  bitterly.  The  ecclesiastic's  cyni- 
cal heedlessness,  his  air  of  one  whose  mind  is  made  up, 
seemed  so  cruel  to  me  whose  life  was  at  stake,  that  I  lost 
patience.  "Except  what  I  have  said,"  I  continued — "that 
for  the  wounding,  it  was  done  in  error;  and  for  the  gate- 
seizing,  I  would  do  it  again  to  save  the  lives  of  those  with 
me.  Only  that  and  this:  that  I  am  a  foreigner  ignorant  of 
your  language  and  customs,  desiring  only  to  pass  peacefully 
through  your  country." 

"That  is  all?"  the  president  asked  impassively. 

"All,"  I  answered,  yet  with  a  strange  tightening  at  my 
throat.  Was  it  all?  All  I  could  say  for  my  life? 

I  was  waiting,  sore  and  angry  and  desperate,  to  hear  the 
sentence,  when  there  came  an  interruption.  Master  Lind- 
strom,  whose  presence  at  my  side  I  had  forgotten,  broke 
suddenly  into  a  torrent  of  impassioned  words,  and  his  urgent 
voice,  ringing  through  the  court,  seemed  in  a  moment  to 
change  its  aspect — to  infuse  into  it  some  degree  of  life  and 
sympathy.  More  than  one  guttural  exclamation,  which 
seemed  to  mark  approval,  burst  from  the  throng  at  the  back 


I78  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

of  the  hall.  In  another  moment,  indeed,  the  Dutchman's 
courage  might  have  saved  me.  But  there  was  one  who 
marked  the  danger.  The  Sub-dean,  who  had  at  first  only 
glowered  at  the  speaker  in  rude  astonishment,  now  cut  him 
short  with  a  harsh  question. 

"One  moment,  Master  Dutchman!"  he  cried.  "Are 
you  one  of  the  heretics  who  call  themselves  Protestants?" 

"I  am.  But  I  understand  that  there  is  here  liberty 
of  conscience,"  our  friend  answered  manfully,  nothing 
daunted  in  his  fervor  at  finding  the  attack  turned  upon 
himself. 

"That  depends  upon  the  conscience,"  the  priest  an- 
swered with  a  scowl.  "We  will  have  no  Anabaptists  here, 
nor  foreign  praters  to  bring  us  into  feud  with  our  neighbors. 
It  is  enough  that  such  men  as  you  are  allowed  to  live.  We 
will  not  be  bearded  by  you,  so  take  warning!  Take  heed, 
I  say,  Master  Dutchman,  and  be  silent!"  he  repeated, 
leaning  forward  and  clapping  his  hand  upon  the  table. 

I  touched  Master  Lindstrom's  sleeve — who  would  of 
himself  have  persisted — and  stayed  him.  "It  is  of  no  use," 
I  muttered.  "That  dog  in  a  crochet  has  condemned  me. 
He  will  have  his  way!" 

There  was  a  short  debate  between  the  three  judges,  while 
in  the  court  you  might  have  heard  a  pin  drop.  Master 
Lindstrom  had  fallen  back  once  more.  I  was  alone  again, 
and  the  stained  window  seemed  to  be  putting  forth  its  mys- 
tic influence  to  enfold  me,  when,  looking  up,  I  saw  a  tiny 
shadow  flit  across  the  soft  many-hued  rays  which  streamed 
from  it  athwart  the  roof.  It  passed  again,  once,  twice, 
thrice.  I  peered  upward  intently.  It  was  a  swallow  flying 
to  and  fro  amid  the  carved  work. 

Yes,  a  swallow.  And  straightway  I  forgot  the  judges  ; 
forgot  the  crowd.  The  scene  vanished  and  I  was  at  Coton 
End  again,  giving  Martin  Luther  the  nest  for  Petronilla — a 
sign,  as  I  meant  it  then,  that  I  should  return.  I  should 
never  return  now.  Yet  my  heart  was  on  a  sudden  so  soft- 
ened that,  instead  of  this  reflection  giving  me  pain,  as  one 
would  have  expected,  it  only  filled  me  with  a  great  anxiety 
to  provide  for  the  event.  She  must  not  wait  and  watch  for 
me  day  after  day,  perhaps  year  after  year.  I  must  see  to  it 
somehow;  and  I  was  thinking  with  such  intentness  of  this, 
that  it  was  only  vaguely  I  heard  the  sentence  pronounced- 


BEFORE    THE  COURT.  179 

It  might  have  been  some  other  person  who  was  to  be  be- 
headed at  the  east  gate  an  hour  before  noon.  And  so  God 
save  the  Duke! 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

IN    THE    DUKE'S   NAME. 

THEY  took  me  back  to  the  room  in  the  tower,  it  being 
now  nearly  ten  o'clock.  Master  Lindstrom  would  fain 
have  stayed  with  me  constantly  to  the  end,  but  having  the 
matter  I  have  mentioned  much  in  my  mind,  I  begged  him 
to  go  and  get  me  writing  materials.  When  he  returned  Van 
Tree  was  with  him.  With  a  particularity  very  curious  at 
that  moment,  I  remarked  that  the  latter  was  carrying  some- 
thing. 

"Where  did  you  get  that?"  I  said  sharply  and  at  once. 

"It  is  your  haversack,"  he  answered,  setting  it  down 
quietly.  "I  found  the  man  who  had  taken  possession  of 
your  horse,  and  got  it  from  him.  I  thought  there  might  be 
something  in  it  you  might  like." 

"It  is  my  haversack,"  I  assented.  "But  it  was  not  on 
my  horse.  I  have  not  seen  it  since  I  left  it  in  Master  Lind- 
strom's  -house  by  the  river.  I  left  it  on  the  pallet  in  my 
room  there,  and  it  was  forgotten.  I  searched  for  it  at 
Emmerich,  you  remember." 

"I  only  know,"  he  replied,  "that  I  discovered  it  behind 
the  saddle  of  the  horse  you  were  riding  yesterday." 

He  thought  that  I  had  become  confused  and  was  a  little 
wrong-headed  from  excitement.  Master  Lindstrom  also 
felt  troubled,  as  he  told  me  afterward,  at  seeing  me  taken 
up  with  a  trifle  at  such  a  time. 

But  there  was  nothing  wrong  with  my  wits,  as  I  promptly 
showed  them. 

"The  horse  I  was  riding  yesterday?"  I  continued.  "Ah! 
then,  I  understand.  I  was  riding  the  horse  which  I  took 
from  the  Spanish  trooper.  The  Spaniard  must  have  an- 
nexed the  haversack  when  he  and  his  companions  searched 
the  house  after  our  departure." 

"That  is  it,  no  doubt,"  Master  Lindstrom  said.  "And 
in  the  hurry  of  yesterday's  ride  you  failed  to  notice  it." 

It   was   a  strange  way   of   recovering   one's   property— 


IN   THE  DUKES  NAME.  181 

strange  that  the  enemy  should  have  helped  one  to  it.  But 
there  are  times — and  this  to  me  was  one — when  the  strange 
seems  the  ordinary  and  commonplace.  I  took  the  sack  and 
slipped  my  hand  through  a  well-known  slit  in  the  lining. 
Yes,  the  letter  I  had  left  there  was  there  still — the  letter  to 
Mistress  Clarence.  I  drew  it  out.  The  corners  of  the  lit- 
tle packet  were  frayed,  and  the  parchment  was  stained  and 
discolored,  no  doubt  by  the  damp  which  had  penetrated 
to  it.  But  the  seal  was  whole.  I  placed  it,  as  it  was,  in 
Master  Lindstrom's  hands. 

"Give  it,"  I  said,  "to  the  Duchess  afterward.  It  con- 
cerns her.  You  have  heard  us  talk  about  it.  Bid  her  make 
what  use  she  pleases  of  it." 

I  turned  away  then  and  sat  down,  feeling  a  little  flurried 
and  excited,  as  one  about  to  start  upon  a  journey  might 
feel;  not  afraid  nor  exceedingly  depressed,  but  braced  up 
to  make  a  brave  show  and  hide  what  sadness  I  did  feel  by 
the  knowledge  that  many  eyes  were  upon  me,  and  that  more 
would  be  watching  me  presently.  At  the  far  end  of  the 
room  a  number  of  people  had  now  gathered,  and  were  con- 
versing together.  Among  them  were  not  only  my  jailers  of 
the  night,  but  two  or  three  officers,  a  priest  who  had  come 
to  offer  me  his  services,  and  some  inquisitive  gazers  who 
had  obtained  admission.  Their  curiosity,  however,  did 
not  distress  me.  On  the  contrary,  I  was  glad  to  hear  the 
stir  and  murmur  of  life  about  me  to  the  last. 

I  will  not  set  down  the  letter  I  wrote  to  the  Duchess, 
though  it  were  easy  for  me  to  do  so,  seeing  that  her  son  has 
it  now.  It  contains  some  things  very  proper  to  be  said  by  a 
dying  man,  of  which  I  am  not  ashamed — God  forbid !  but 
which  it  would  not  be  meet  for  me  to  repeat  here.  Enough 
that  I  told  her  in  a  few  words  who  I  was,  and  entreated  her, 
in  the  name  of  whatever  services  I  had  rendered  her,  to  let 
Petronilla  and  Sir  Anthony  know  how  I  had  died.  And  I 
added  something  which  would,  I  thought,  comfort  her  and 
her  husband — namely,  that  I  was  not  afraid,  or  in  any  suf- 
fering of  mind  or  body. 

The  writing  of  this  shook  my  composure  a  little.  But 
as  I  laid  down  the  pen  and  looked  up  and  found  that  the 
time  was  come,  I  took  courage  in  a  marvelous  manner. 
The  captain  of  the  guard — I  think  that  out  of  a  compas- 
sionate desire  not  to  interrupt  me  they  had  allowed  me 


1 82  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

some  minutes  of  grace — came  to  me,  leaving  the  group  at 
the  other  end,  and  told  me  gravely  that  I  was  waited  for. 
I  rose  at  once  and  gave  the  letter  to  Master  Lindstrom  with 
some  messages  in  which  Dymphna  and  Anne  were  not  for- 
gotten. And  then,  with  a  smile — for  I  felt  under  all  those 
eyes  as  if  I  were  going  into  battle — I  said:  "Gentlemen,  I 
am  ready  if  you  are.  It  is  a  fine  day  to  die.  You  know," 
I  added  gayly,  "in  England  we  have  a  proverb,  'The  better 
the  day,  the  better  the  deed!'  So  it  is  well  to  have  a  good 
day  to  have  a  good  death,  Sir  Captain." 

"A  soldier's  death,  sir,  is  a  good  death;"  he  answered 
gravely,  speaking  in  Spanish  and  bowing. 

Then  he  pointed  to  the  door. 

As  I  walked  toward  it,  I  paused  momentarily  by  the  win- 
dow, and  looked  out  on  the  crowd  below.  It  filled  the 
sunlit  street — save  where  a  little  raised  platform  strewn 
with  rushes  protruded  itself — with  heads  from  wall  to  wall, 
with  faces  all  turned  one  way — toward  me.  It  was  a  silent 
crowd  standing  in  hushed  awe  and  expectation,  the  con- 
sciousness of  which  for  an  instant  sent  a  sudden  chill  to  my 
heart,  blanching  my  cheek,  and  making  my  blood  run  slow 
for  a  moment.  The  next  I  moved  on  to  the  door,  and 
bowing  to  the  spectators  as  they  stood  aside,  began  to 
descend  the  narrow  staircase. 

There  were  guards  going  down  before  me,  and  behind  me 
were  Master  Lindstrom  and  more  guards.  The  Dutchman 
reached  forward  in  the  gloom,  and  clasped  my  hand,  hold- 
ing it,  as  we  went  down,  in  a  firm,  strong  grip. 

"Never  fear,"  I  said  to  him  cheerily,  looking  back. 
"It  is  all  right." 

He  answered  in  words  which  I  will  not  write  here ;  not 
wishing,  as  I  have  said,  to  make  certain  things  common. 

I  suppose  the  doorway  at  the  bottom  was  accidentally 
blocked,  for  a  few  steps  short  of  it  we  came  to  a  standstill ; 
and  almost  at  the  same  moment  I  started,  despite  myself, 
on  hearing  a  sudden  clamor  and  a  roar  of  many  voices 
outside. 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked  the  Dutchman. 

"It  is  the  Duke  of  Cleves  arriving,  I  expect,"  he  whis- 
pered. "He  comes  in  by  the  other  gate." 

A  moment  later  we  moved   on  and  passed  out  into  the 


IN   THE  DUKE'S  NAME.  i«3 

light,  the  soldiers  before  me  stepping  on  either  side  to  give 
me  place.  The  sunshine  for  an  instant  dazzled  me,  and  I 
lowered  my  eyes.  As  I  gradually  raised  them  again  I  saw 
before  me  a  short  lane  formed  by  two  rows  of  spectators 
kept  back  by  guards ;  and  at  the  end  of  this,  two  or  three 
rough  wooden  steps  leading  to  a  platform  on  which  were 
standing  a  number  of  people.  And  above  and  beyond  all 
only  the  bright  blue  sky,  the  roofs  and  gables  of  the  nearer 
houses  showing  dark  against  it. 

I  advanced  steadily  along  the  path  left  for  me,  and  would 
have  ascended  the  steps.  But  at  the  foot  of  them  I  came 
to  a  standstill,  and  looked  round  for  guidance.  The  per- 
sons on  the  scaffold  all  had  their  backs  turned  to  me,  and 
did  not  make  way,  while  the  shouting  and  uproar  hindered 
them  from  hearing  that  we  had  come  out.  Then  it  struck 
me,  seeing  that  the  people  at  the  windows  were  also  gazing 
away,  and  taking  no  heed  of  me,  that  the  Duke  was  passing 
the  farther  end  of  the  street,  and  a  sharp  pang  of  angry  pain 
shot  through  me.  I  had  come  out  to  die,  but  that  which 
was  all  to  me  was  so  little  to  these  people  that  they  turned 
away  to  see  a  fellow-mortal  ride  by! 

Presently,  as  we  stood  there,  in  a  pit,  as  it  were,  getting 
no  view,  I  felt  Master  Lindstrom's  hand,  which  still  clasped 
mine,  begin  to  shake;  and  turning  to  him,  I  found  that  his 
face  had  changed  to  a  deep  red,  and  that  his  eyes  were  pro- 
truding with  a  kind  of  convulsive  eagerness  which  instantly 
infected  me. 

"What  is  it?"  I  stammered.  I  began  to  tremble  also. 
The  air  rang,  it  seemed  to  me,  with  one  word,  which  a  thou- 
sand tongues  took  up  and  reiterated.  But  it  was  a  German 
word,  and  I  did  not  understand  it. 

"Wait!  wait!"  Master  Lindstrom  exclaimed.  "Pray 
God  it  be  true!" 

He  seized  my  other  hand  and  held  it  as  though  he  would 
protect  me  from  something.  At  the  same  moment  Van 
Tree  pushed  past  me,  and,  bounding  up  the  steps,  thrust  his 
way  through  the  officials  on  the  scaffold,  causing  more  than 
one  fur-robed  citizen  near  the  edge  to  lose  his  balance  and 
come  down  as  best  he  could  on  the  shoulders  of  the  guards. 

"What  is  it?"  I  cried.  "What  is  it?"  I  cried  in  impa- 
tient wonder. 

"Oh!  my  lad,  my  lad!"  Master  Lindstrom  answered,  his 


1 84  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

face  close  to  rrfine,  and  the  tears  running  down  his  cheeks. 
"It  is  cruel  if  it  be  not  true!  Cruel!  They  cry  a  par- 
don!" 

"A  pardon?"  I  echoed. 

"Ay,  lad,  a  pardon.  But  it  may  not  be  true,"  he  said, 
putting  his  arm  about  my  shoulder.  "Do  not  make  too 
sure  of  it.  It  is  only  the  mob  cry  it  out." 

My  heart  made  a  great  bound,  and  seemed  to  stand  still. 
There  was  a  loud  surging  in  my  brain,  and  a  mist  rose  be- 
fore my  eyes  and  hid  everything.  The  clamor  and  shout- 
ing of  the  street  passed  away,  and  sounded  vague  and  dis- 
tant. The  next  instant,  it  is  true,  I  was  myself  again,  but 
my  knees  were  trembling  under  me,  and  I  stood  flaccid  and 
unnerved,  leaning  on  my  friend. 

"Well?"  I  said  faintly. 

"Patience!  patience  a  while,  lad!"  he  answered. 

But,  thank  Heaven!  I  had  not  long  to  wait.  The  words 
were  scarcely  off  his  tongue,  when  another  hand  sought 
mine  and  shook  it  wildly;  and  I  saw  Van  Tree  before  me, 
his  face  radiant  with  joy,  while  a  man  whom  he  had 
knocked  down  in  his  hasty  leap  from  the  scaffold  was  rising 
beside  me  with  a  good-natured  smile.  As  if  at  a  signal, 
every  face  now  turned  toward  me.  A  dozen  friendly  hands 
passed  me  up  the  steps  amid  a  fresh  outburst  of  cheering. 
The  throng  on  the  scaffold  opened  somehow,  and  I  found 
myself  in  a  second,  as  it  seemed,  face  to  face  with  the  presi- 
dent of  the  court.  He  smiled  on  me  gravely  and  kindly — 
what  smiles  there  seemed  to  be  on  all  those  faces — and  held 
out  a  paper. 

"In  the  name  of  the  Duke!"  he  said,  speaking  in  Span- 
ish, in  a  clear,  loud  voice.  "A  pardon!" 

I  muttered  something,  I  know  not  what;  nor  did  it  mat- 
ter, for  it  was  lost  in  a  burst  of  cheering.  When  this  was 
over  and  silence  obtained,  the  magistrate  continued,  "You 
are  required,  however,  to  attend  the  Duke  at  the  court- 
house. Whither  we  had  better  proceed  at  once." 

"I  am  ready,  sir,"  I  muttered. 

A  road  was  made  for  us  to  descend,  and,  walking  in  a 
kind  of  beautiful  dream,  I  passed  slowly  up  the  street  by  the 
side  of  the  magistrate,  the  crowd  everywhere  willingly  stand- 
ing aside  for  us.  I  do  not  know  whether  all  those  thou- 


IN  THE  DUKE'S  NAME.  185 

sands  of  faces  really  looked  joyfully  and  kindly  on  me  as  I 
passed,  or  whether  the  deep  thankfulness  which  choked  me, 
and  brought  the  tears  continually  to  my  eyes,  transfigured 
them  and  gave  them  a  generous  charm  not  their  own.  But 
this  I  do  know:  that  the  sunshine  seemed  brighter  and  the 
air  softer  than  ever  before;  that  the  clouds  trailing  across 
the  blue  expanse  were  things  of  beauty  such  as  I  had  never 
met  before;  that  to  draw  breath  was  a  joy,  and  to  move, 
delight ;  and  that  only  when  the  dark  valley  was  left  behind 
did  I  comprehend  its  full  gloom — by  Heaven's  mercy.  So 
may  it  be  with  all! 

At  the  door  of  the  court-house,  whither  numbers  of  the 
people  had  already  run,  the  press  was  so  great  that  we  came 
to  a  standstill,  and  were  much  buffeted  about,  though  in  all 
good  humor,  before,  even  with  the  aid  of  the  soldiers,  we 
could  be  got  through  the  throng.  When  I  at  last  emerged 
I  found  myself  again  before  the  table,  and  saw — but  only 
dimly,  for  the  light  now  fell  through  the  stained  window 
directly  on  my  head — a  commanding  figure  standing  behind 
it.  Then  a  strange  thing  happened.  A  woman  passed 
swiftly  round  the  table,  and  came  to  me  and  flung  her  arms 
round  my  neck  and  kissed  me.  It  was  the  Duchess,  and 
for  a  moment  she  hung  upon  me,  weeping  before  them  all. 

"Madam,"  I  said  softly,  "then  it  is  you  who  have  done 
this!" 

"Ah!"  she  exclaimed,  holding  me  off  from  her  and  look- 
ing at  me  with  eyes  which  glowed  through  her  tears,  "and 
it  was  you  who  did  that!" 

She  drew  back  from  me  then,  and  took  me  by  the  hand, 
and  turned  impetuously  to  the  Duke  of  Cleves,  who  stood 
behind  smiling  at  her  in  frank  amusement.  "This,"  she 
said,  "is  the  man  who  gave  his  life  for  my  husband,  and  to 
whom  your  highness  has  given  it  back." 

"Let  him  tell  his  tale,"  the  Duke  answered  gravely. 
"And  do  you,  my  cousin,  sit  here  beside  me." 

She  left  me  and  walked  round  the  table,  and  he  came  for- 
ward and  placed  her  in  his  own  chair  amid  a  great  hush  of 
wonder,  for  she  was  still  meanly  clad,  and  showed  in  a 
hundred  places  the  marks  and  stains  of  travel.  Then  he 
stood  by  her  with  his  hand  on  the  back  of  the  seat.  He 
was  a  tall,  burly  man,  with  bold,  quick-glancing  eyes,  a 
flushed  face,  and  a  loud  manner;  a  fierce,  blusterous  prince, 


1 86  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

as  I  have  heard.  He  was  plainly  dressed  in  a  leather  hunt- 
ing-suit, and  wore  huge  gauntlets  and  brown  boots,  with  a 
broad-leaved  hat  pinned  up  on  one  side.  Yet  he  looked  a 
prince. 

Somehow  I  stammered  out  the  tale  of  the  surrender. 

"But  why?  why?  why,  man?"  he  asked,  when  I  had  fin- 
ished; "why  did  you  let  them  think  it  was  you  who 
wounded  the  burgher,  if  it  was  not?" 

"Your  highness,"  I  answered,  "I  had  received  nothing 
but  good  from  her  grace,  I  had  eaten  her  bread  and  been 
received  into  her  service.  Besides,  it  was  through  my 
persuasion  that  we  came  by  the  road  which  led  to  this  mis- 
fortune instead  of  by  another  way.  Therefore  it  seemed  to 
me  right  that  I  should  suffer,  who  stood  alone  and  could 
be  spared — and  not  her  husband." 

"It  was  a  great  deed!"  cried  the  prince  loudly.  "I 
would  I  had  such  a  servant.  Are  you  noble,  lad?" 

I  colored  high,  but  not  in  pain  or  mortification.  The  old 
wound  might  reopen,  but  amid  events  such  as  those  of  this 
morning  it  was  a  slight  matter.  "I  come  of  a  noble  family, 
may  it  please  your  highness,"  I  answered  modestly;  "but 
circumstances  prevent  me  claiming  kinship  with  it." 

He  was  about,  I  think,  to  question  me  further,  when  the 
Duchess  looked  up,  and  said  something  to  him  and  he 
something  to  her.  She  spoke  again  and  he  answered. 
Then  he  nodded  assent.  "You  would  fain  stand  on  your 
own  feet?"  he  cried  to  me.  "Is  that  so?" 

"It  is,  sire,"  I  answered. 

"Then  so  be  it!"  he  replied  loudly,  looking  round  on 
the  throng  with  a  frown.  "I  will  ennoble  you.  You  would 
have  died  for  your  lord  and  friend,  and  therefore  I  give  you 
a  rood  of  land  in  the  common  graveyard  of  Santon  to  hold 
of  me,  and  I  name  you  Von  Santonkirch.  And  I,  William, 
Duke  of  Cleves,  Julich  and  Guelders,  prince  of  the  Em- 
pire, declare  you  noble,  and  give  you  for  your  arms  three 
swords  of  justice ;  and  the  motto  you  may  buy  of  a  clerk ! 
Further,  let  this  decree  be  enrolled  in  my  Chancery.  Are 
you  satisfied?" 

As  I  dropped  on  my  knees,  my  eyes  sparkling,  there  was 
a  momentary  disturbance  behind  me.  It  was  caused  by  the 
abrupt  entrance  of  the  Sub-dean.  He  took  in  part  of  the 


IN   THE  DUKE'S  NAME.  187 

the  situation  at  a  glance;  that  is,  he  saw  me  kneeling  be- 
fore the  Duke.  But  he  could  not  see  the  Duchess  of  Suf- 
folk, the  Duke  s  figure  being  interposed.  As  he  came  for- 
ward, the  crowd  making  way  for  him,  he  cast  an  angry  glance 
at  me,  and  scarcely  smoothed  his  brow  even  to  address  the 
prince.  "I  am  glad  that  your  highness  has  not  done  what 
was  reported  to  me,"  he  said  hastily,  his  obeisance  brief 
and  perfunctory.  "I  heard  an  uproar  in  the  town,  and  was 
told  that  this  man  was  pardoned." 

"It  is  so!"  said  the  Duke  curtly,  eying  the  ecclesiastic 
with  no  great  favor.  "He  is  pardoned." 

"Only  in  part,  I  presume,"  the  priest  rejoined  urgently. 
"Or,  if  otherwise,  I  am  sure  that  your  highness  has  not  re- 
ceived certain  information  with  which  I  can  furnish  you." 

"Furnish  away,  sir,"  quoth  the  Duke,  yawning. 

"I  have  had  letters  from  my  Lord  Bishop  of  Arras 
respecting  him." 

"Respecting  him!"  exclaimed  the  prince,  starting  and 
bending  his  brows  in  surprise. 

"Respecting  those  in  whose  company  he  travels,"  the 
priest  answered  hastily.  "They  are  represented  to  me  as 
dangerous  persons,  pestilent  refugees  from  England,  and 
obnoxious  alike  to  the  Emperor,  the  Prince  of  Spain,  and 
the  Queen  of  England." 

"I  wonder  you  do  not  add  also  to  the  King  of  France 
and  the  Soldan  of  Turkey!"  growled  the  Duke.  "Pish! 
I  am  not  going  to  be  dictated  to  by  Master  Granvelle — no, 
nor  by  his  master,  be  he  ten  times  Emperor!  Go  to!  Go 
to!  Master  Sub-dean!  You  forget  yourself,  and  so  does 
your  master  the  Bishop.  I  will  have  you  know  that  these 
people  are  not  what  you  think  them.  Call  you  my  cousin, 
the  widow  of  the  consort  of  the  late  Queen  of  France,  an 
obnoxious  person?  Fie!  Fie!  You  forget  yourself !" 

He  moved  as  he  stopped  speaking,  so  that  the  astonished 
churchman  found  himself  confronted  on  a  sudden  by  the 
smiling,  defiant  Duchess.  The  Sub-dean  started  and  his 
face  fell,  for,  seeing  her  seated  in  the  Duke's  presence,  he 
discerned  at  once  that  the  game  was  played  out.  Yet  he 
rallied  himself,  bethinking  him,  I  fancy,  that  there  were 
many  spectators.  He  made  a  last  effort.  "The  Bishop  of 
Arras "  he  began. 

"Pish!"  scoffed  the  Duke,  interrupting  him. 


1 88  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDVE. 

"The  Bishop  of  Arras "  the  priest  repeated  firmly. 

"I  would  he  were  hung  with  his  own  tapestry!"  retorted 
the  Duke,  with  a  brutal  laugh. 

"Heaven  forbid!"  replied  the  ecclesiastic,  his  pale  face 
reddening  and  his  eyes  darting  baleful  glances  at  me.  But 
he  took  the  hint,  and  henceforth  said  no  more  of  the  Bishop. 
Instead,  he  continued  smoothly,  "Your  highness  has,  of 
course,  considered  the  danger — the  danger,  I  mean,  of  pro- 
voking neighbors  so  powerful  by  shielding  this  lady  and 
making  her  cause  your  own.  You  will  remember,  sir " 

"I  will  remember  Innspruck!"  roared  the  Duke,  in  a 
rage,  "where  the  Emperor,  ay,  and  your  everlasting  Bishop 
too,  fled  before  a  handful  of  Protestants,  like  sheep  before 
wolves.  A  fig  for  your  Emperor!  I  never  feared  him 
young,  and  I  fear  him  less  now  that  he  is  old  and  decrepit 
and,  as  men  say,  mad.  Let  him  get  to  his  watches,  and  you 
to  your  prayers.  If  there  were  not  this  table  between  us,  I 
would  pull  your  ears,  Master  Churchman!" 

"But  tell  me,"  I  asked  Master  Bertie  as  I  stood  beside 
his  couch  an  hour  later,  "how  did  the  Duchess  manage  it? 
I  gathered  from  something  you  or  she  said,  a  short  time 
back,  that  you  had  no  influence  with  the  Duke  of  Cleves." 

"Not  quite  that,"  he  answered.  "My  wife  and  the  late 
Duke  of  Suffolk  had  much  to  do  with  wedding  the  Prince's 
sister  to  King  Henry,  thirteen — fourteen  years  back,  is  it? 
And  so  far  we  might  have  felt  confident  of  his  protection. 
But  the  marriage  turned  out  ill,  or  turned  out  short,  and 
Queen  Anne  of  Cleves  was  divorced.  And — well,  we  felt 
a  little  less  confident  on  that  account,  particularly  as  he  has 
the  name  of  a  headstrong,  passionate  man." 

"Heaven  keep  him  in  it!"  I  said,  smiling.  "But  you 
have  not  told  me  yet  what  happened." 

"The  Duchess  was  still  asleep  this  morning,  fairly  worn 
out,  as  you  may  suppose,  when  a  great  noise  awoke  her. 
She  got  up  and  went  to  Dymphna,  and  learned  it  was  the 
Duke's  trumpets.  Then  she  went  to  the  window,  and,  see- 
ing few  people  in  the  streets  to  welcome  him,  inquired  why 
this  was.  Dymphna  broke  down  at  that,  and  told  her  what 
was  happening  to  you,  and  that  you  were  to  die  at  that  very 
hour.  She  went  out  straightway,  without  covering  her  head, 
— you  know  how  impetuous  she  is, — and  flung  herself  on  her 


IN   THE  DUKE'S  NAME.  189 

knees  in  the  mud  before  the  Duke's  horse  as  he  entered. 
He  knew  her,  and  the  rest  you  can  guess." 

Can  guess?  Ah,  what  happiness  it  was!  Outside,  the 
sun  fell  hotly  on  the  steep  red  roofs,  with  their  rows  of  case- 
ments, and  on  the  sleepy  square,  in  which  knots  of  people 
still  lingered,  talking  of  the  morning's  events.  I  could  see 
below  me  the  guard  which  Duke  William,  shrewdly  mis- 
trusting the  Sub-dean,  had  posted  in  front  of  the  house, 
nominally  to  do  the  Duchess  honor.  I  could  hear  in  the 
next  room  the  cheerful  voices  of  my  friends.  What  happi- 
ness it  was  to  live !  What  happiness  to  be  loved !  How 
very,  very  good  and  beautiful  and  glorious  a  world,  seemed 
the  world  to  me  on  that  old  May  morning  in  that  quaint 
German  town  which  we  had  entered  so  oddly! 

As  I  turned  from  the  window  full  of  thankfulness,  my 
eyes  met  those  of  Mistress  Anne,  who  was  sitting  on  the  far 
side  of  the  sick  man's  couch,  the  baby  in  a  cradle  beside 
her.  The  risk  and  exposure  of  the  last  week  had  made  a 
deeper  mark  upon  her  than  upon  any  of  us.  She  was 
paler,  graver,  older,  more  of  a  woman  and  less,  much  less, 
of  a  girl.  And  she  looked  very  ill.  Her  eyes,  in  particular, 
seemed  to  have  grown  larger,  and  as  they  dwelt  on  me  now 
there  was  a  strange  and  solemn  light  in  them,  under  which  I 
grew  uneasy. 

"You  have  been  wonderfully  preserved,"  she  said  pres- 
ently, speaking  dreamily,  and  as  much  to  herself  as  to  me. 

"I  have,  indeed,"  I  answered,  thinking  she  referred  only 
to  my  escape  of  the  morning. 

But  she  did  not. 

"There  was,  firstly,  the  time  on  the  river  when  you  were 
hurt  with  the  oar,"  she  continued,  gazing  absently  at  me, 
her  hands  in  her  lap;  "and  then  the  night  when  you  saw 
Clarence  with  Dymphna." 

"Or,  rather,  saw  him  without  her,"  I  interposed,  smil- 
ing. It  was  strange  that  she  should  mention  it  as  a  fact, 
when  at  the  time  she  had  so  scolded  me  for  making  the 
statement. 

"And  then,"  she  continued,  disregarding  my  interrup- 
tion, "there  was  the  time  when  you  were  stabbed  in  the 
passage;  and  again  when  you  had  the  skirmish  by  the  river; 
and  then  to-day  you  were  within  a  minute  of  death.  You 
have  been  wonderfully  preserved  !  " 


190  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

"I  have,"  I  assented  thoughtfully.  "The  more  as  I  sus- 
pect that  I  have  to  thank  Master  Clarence  for  all  these  little 
adventures." 

"Strange — very  strange!"  she  muttered,  removing  her 
eyes  from  me  that  she  might  fix  them  on  the  floor. 

"What  is  strange?" 

The  abrupt  questioner  was  the  Duchess,  who  came 
bustling  in  at  the  moment.  "What  is  strange?"  she  re- 
peated, with  a  heightened  color  and  dancing  eyes.  "Shall 
I  tell  you?"  She  paused  and  looked  brightly  at  me,  hold- 
ing something  concealed  behind  her.  I  guessed  in  a  mo- 
ment, from  the  aspect  of  her  face,  what  it  was:  the  letter 
which  I  had  given  to  Master  Lindstrom  in  the  morning,  and 
which,  with  a  pardonable  forgetfulness,  I  had  failed  to  re- 
claim. 

I  turned  very  red.  "It  was  not  intended  for  you  now," 
I  said  shyly.  For  in  the  letter  I  had  told  her  my  story. 

"Pooh!  pooh!"  she  cried.  "It  is  just  as  I  thought.  A 
pretty  piece  of  folly!  No,"  she  continued,  as  I  opened  my 
mouth,  "I  am  not  going  to  keep  your  secret,  sir.  You 
may  go  down  on  your  knees.  It  will  be  of  no  use.  Rich- 
ard, you  remember  Sir  Anthony  Cludde  of  Colon  End  in 
Warwickshire?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  her  husband  said,  rising  on  his  elbow,  while 
his  face  lit  up,  and  I  stood  bashfully,  shifting  my  feet. 

"I  have  danced  with  him  a  dozen  times,  years  ago!"  she 
continued,  her  eyes  sparkling  with  mischief.  "Well,  sir, 
this  gentleman,  Master  Francis  Carey,  otherwise  Von  San- 
tonkirch,  is  Francis  Cludde,  his  nephew!" 

"Sir  Anthony's  nephew?" 

"Yes,  and  the  son  of  Ferdinand  Cludde,  whom  you  also 
have  heard  of,  of  whom  the  less " 

She  stopped,  and  turned  quickly,  interrupted  by  a  half- 
stifled  scream.  It  was  a  scream  full  of  sudden  horror  and 
amazement  and  fear;  and  it  came  from  Mistress  Anne. 
The  girl  had  risen,  and  was  gazing  at  me  with  distended 
eyes  and  blanched  cheeks,  and  hands  stretched  out  to  keep 
me  off — gazing,  indeed,  as  if  she  saw  in  me  some  awful  por- 
tent or  some  dreadful  threat.  She  did  not  speak,  but  she 
began,  without  taking  her  eyes  from  me,  to  retreat  toward 
the  door. 


IN  THE  DUKE'S  NAME.  191 

"Hoity  toity!"  cried  my  lady,  stamping  her  foot  in 
anger.  "What  has  happened  to  the  girl?  What " 

What,  indeed?  The  Duchess  stopped,  still  more  aston- 
ished. For,  without  uttering  a  word  of  explanation  or  apol- 
ogy, Mistress  Anne  had  reached  the  door,  groped  blindly 
for  the  latch,  found  it,  and  gone  out,  her  eyes,  with  the 
same  haunted  look  of  horror  in  them,  fixed  on  me  to  the 
last. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A   LETTER   THAT    HAD   MANY    ESCAPES. 

"TTOITY,  toity!"  the  Duchess  cried  again,  looking  from 
II  one  to  another  of  us  when  Anne  had  disappeared. 
"What  has  come  to  the  little  fool?  Has  she  gone  crazy?" 

I  shook  my  head,  too  completely  at  sea  even  to  hazard  a 
conjecture.  Master  Bertie  shook  his  head  also,  keeping  his 
eyes  glued  to  the  door,  as  if  he  could  not  believe  Anne  had 
really  gone. 

"I  said  nothing  to  frighten  her!"  my  lady  protested. 

"Nothing  at  all,"  I  answered.  For  how  should  the  an- 
nouncement that  my  real  name  was  Cludde  terrify  Mistress 
Anne  Brandon  nearly  out  of  her  senses? 

"Well,  no,"  Master  Bertie  agreed,  his  thoughtful  face 
more  thoughtful  than  usual;  "so  far  as  I  heard,  you  said 
nothing.  But  I  think,  my  dear,  that  you  had  better  follow 
her  and  learn  what  it  is.  She  must  be  ill." 

The  Duchess  sat  down.  "I  will  go  by-and-by,"  she  said 
coolly,  at  which  I  was  not  much  surprised,  for  I  have  always 
remarked  that  women  have  less  sympathy  with  other  wo- 
men's ailments,  especially  of  the  nerves,  than  have  men. 

"For  the  moment  I  want  to  scold  this  brave,  silly  boy 
here!"  she  continued,  looking  so  kindly  at  me  that  I 
blushed  again,  and  forgot  all  about  Mistress  Anne.  "To 
think  of  him  leaving  his  home  to  become  a  wandering 
squire  of  dames  merely  because  his  father  wa;,  a — well,  not 
quite  what  he  would  have  liked  him  to  be!  I  remember 
something  about  him,"  she  continued,  pursing  up  her  lips, 
and  nodding  her  head  at  us.  "I  fancied  him  dead,  how- 
ever, years  ago.  But  there!  if  every  one  whose  father  were 
not  quite  to  his  liking  left  home  and  went  astraying,  Master 
Francis,  all  sensible  folk  would  turn  innkeepers,  and  onake 
their  fortunes." 

"It  was  not  only  that  which  drove  me  from  home,"  I 


A   LETTER    THAT  HAD  MANY  ESCAPES.         193 

explained.     "The  Bishop  of  Winchester  gave  me  clearly  to 
understand ' ' 

"That  Coton  vas  not  the  place  for  you!"  exclaimed  my 
lady  scornfully.  "He  is  a  sort  of  connection  of  yours,  is  he 
not?  Oh,  1  know.  And  he  thinks  he  has  a  kind  of  rever- 
sionary interest  in  the  property!  With  you  and  your  father 
out  of  the  way,  and  only  your  girl  cousin  left,  his  interest 
is  much  more  likely  to  come  to  hand.  Do  you  see?" 

I  recalled  what  Martin  Luther  had  said  about  the  cuckoo. 
But  I  have  since  thought  that  probably  they  both  wronged 
Stephen  Gardiner  in  this.  He  was  not  a  man  of  petty 
mind,  and  his  estate  was  equal  to  his  high  place.  I  think  it 
more  likely  that  his  motive  in  removing  me  from  Coton  was 
chiefly  the  desire  to  use  my  services  abroad,  in  conjunction 
perhaps  with  some  remoter  and  darker  plan  for  eventually 
devoting  the  Cludde  property  to  the  Church.  Such  an  act 
of  piety  would  have  been  possible  had  Sir  Anthony  died 
leaving  his  daughter  unmarried,  and  would  certainly  have 
earned  for  the  Chancellor  Queen  Mary's  lasting  favor.  I 
think  it  the  more  likely  to  have  been  in  his  mind  because 
his  inability  to  persuade  the  gentry  to  such  acts  of  restitu- 
tion— King  Harry  had  much  enriched  us — was  always  a 
sore  point  with  the  Queen,  and  more  than  once  exposed 
him  to  her  resentment. 

"The  strangest  thing  of  all,"  the  Duchess  continued  with 
alacrity,  "seems  to  me  to  be  this:  that  if  he  had  not  med- 
dled with  you,  he  would  not  have  had  his  plans  in  regard  to 
us  thwarted.  If  he  had  not  driven  you  from  home,  you 
would  never  have  helped  me  to  escape  from  London,  nor 
been  with  us  to  foil  his  agents." 

"A  higher  power  than  the  Chancellor  arranged  that!" 
said  Master  Bertie  emphatically. 

"Well,  at  any  rate,  I  am  glad  that  you  are  you!"  the 
Duchess  answered,  rising  gayly.  "A  Cludde?  Why,  one 
feels  at  home  again.  And  yet,"  she  continued,  her  lips 
trembling  suddenly,  and  her  eyes  filling  with  tears  as  she 
looked  at  me,  "there  was  never  house  raised  yet  on  nobler 
deed  than  yours." 

"Go!  go!  go!"  cried  her  husband,  seeing  my  embar- 
rassment. "Go  and  look  to  that  foolish  girl!" 

"I  will!  Yet  stop!"  cried  my  lady,  pausing  when  she 
was  half  way  across  the  floor,  and  returning,  "I  was  for- 


194  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

getting  that  I  have  another  letter  to  open.  It  is  very  odd 
that  this  letter  was  never  opened  before,"  she  continued, 
producing  that  which  had  lain  in  my  haversack.  "It  has 
had  several  narrow  escapes.  But  this  time  I  vow  I  will  see 
inside  it.  You  give  me  leave?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  said,  smiling.  "I  wash  my  hands  of  it. 
Whoever  the  Mistress  Clarence  to  whom  it  is  addressed  may 
be,  it  is  enough  that  her  name  is  Clarence!  We  have  suf- 
fered too  much  at  his  hands." 

"I  open  it,  then!"  my  lady  cried  dramatically.  I 
nodded.  She  took  her  husband's  dagger  and  cut  the  green 
silk  which  bound  the  packet,  and  opened  and  read. 

Only  a  few  words.  Then  she  stopped,  and  looking  off 
the  paper,  shivered.  "I  do  not  understand  this,"  she  mur- 
mured. "What  does  it  mean?" 

"No  good!  I'll  be  sworn!"  Master  Bertie  replied,  gaz- 
ing at  her  eagerly.  "Read  it  aloud,  Katherine." 

"  'To    Mistress  A B .     I  am  advertised  by  my 

trusty  agent,  Master  Clarence,  that  he  hath  benefited  much 
by  your  aid  in  the  matter  in  which  I  have  employed  him. 
Such  service  goeth  always  for  much,  and  never  for  naught, 
with  me.  In  which  belief  confirm  yourself.  For  the  pres- 
ent, working  with  him  as  heretofore,  be  secret,  and  on  no 
account  let  your  true  sentiments  come  to  light.  So  you  will 
be  the  more  valuable  to  me,  even  as  it  is  more  easy  to  un- 
fasten a  barred  door  from  within  than  from  without.'  " 

Here  the  Duchess  broke  off  abruptly,  and  turned  on  us  a 
face  full  of  wonder.  "What  does  it  mean?"  she  asked. 

"Is  that  all?"  her  husband  said. 

"Not  quite,"  she  answered,  returning  to  it,  and  reading: 

"  'Those  whom  you  have  hitherto  served  have  too  long 
made  a  mockery  of  sacred  things,  but  their  cup  is  full  and 
the  business  of  seeing  that  they  drink  it  lieth  with  me,  who 
am  not  wont  to  be  slothful  in  these  matters.  Be  faithful 
and  secret.  Good  speed  and  fare  you  well. — Ste.  Winton.' ' 

"One  thing  is  quite  clear!"  said  Master  Bertie  slowly. 
"That  you  and  I  are  the  persons  whose  cup  is  full.  You 
remember  how  you  once  dressed  up  a  dog  in  a  rochet,  and 
dandled  it  before  Gardiner?  And  it  is  our  matter  in  which 
Clarence  is  employed.  Then  who  is  it  who  has  been  co- 


'  A   LETTER    THAT  HAD  MANY  ESCAPES.         195 

operating  with  him,  and  whose  aid  is  of  so  much  value  to 
him?" 

"  'Even  as  it  is  easier,'  "  I  muttered  thoughtfully,  "  'to 
unfasten  a  barred  door  from  within  than  from  without.'' 
What  was  it  of  which  that  strange  sentence  reminded  me? 
Ha!  I  had  it.  Of  the  night  on  which  we  had  fled  from 
Master  Lindstrom's  house,  when  Mistress  Anne  had  been 
seized  with  that  odd  fit  of  perverseness,  and  had  almost 
opened  the  door  looking  upon  the  river  in  spite  of  all  I 
could  say  or  do.  It  was  of  that  the  sentence  reminded  me. 
"To  whom  is  it  addressed?"  I  asked  abruptly. 

"To  Mistress  Clarence,"  my  lady  answered. 

"No;   inside,  I  mean." 

"Oh!  to  Mistress  A B .     But  that  gives  us  no 

clew,"  she  added.      "It  is  a  disguise.     You  see  they  are  the 
two  first  letters  of  the  alphabet." 

So  they  were.  And  the  initial  letters  of  Anne  Brandon! 
I  wondered  that  the  Duchess  did  not  see  it,  that  she  did  not 
at  once  turn  her  suspicions  toward  the  right  quarter.  But 
she  was,  for  a  woman,  singularly  truthful  and  confiding. 
And  she  saw  nothing. 

I  looked  at  Master  Bertie.  He  seemed  puzzled,  discern- 
ing, I  fancy,  how  strangely  the  allusions  pointed  to  Mistress 
Anne,  but  not  daring  at  once  to  draw  the  inference.  She 
was  his  wife's  kinswoman  by  marriage — albeit  a  distant  one 
— and  much  indebted  to  her.  She  had  been  almost  as  his 
own  sister.  She  was  young  and  fair,  and  to  associate 
treachery  and  ingratitude  such  as  this  with  her  seemed 
almost  too  horrible. 

Then  why  was  I  so  clear  sighted  as  to  read  the  riddle? 
Why  was  I  the  first  to  see  the  truth?  Because  I  had  felt 
for  days  a  vague  and  ill-defined  distrust  of  the  girl.  I  had 
seen  more  of  her  odd  fits  and  caprices  than  had  the  others. 
Looking  back  now  I  could  find  a  confirmation  of  my  idea 
in  a  dozen  things  which  had  befallen  us.  I  remembered 
how  ill  and  stricken  she  had  looked  on  the  day  when  I  had 
first  brought  out  the  letter,  and  how  strangely  she  had  talked 
to  me  about  it.  I  remembered  Clarence's  interview  with, 
not  Dymphna, — as  I  had  then  thought, — but,  as  I  now 
guessed,  Anne,  wearing  her  cloak.  I  recalled  the  manner 
in  which  she  had  used  me  to  persuade  Master  Bertie  to  take 
the  Wesel  instead  of  the  Santon  road ;  no  doubt  she  had 


196  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

told  Clarence  to  follow  in  that  direction,  if  by  any  chance 
we  escaped  him  on  the  island.  And  her  despair  when  she 
heard  in  the  church  porch  that  I  had  killed  Clarence  at  the 
ford!  And  her  utter  abandonment  to  fear — poor  guilty 
thing! — when  she  thought  that  all  her  devices  had  only  led 
her  with  us  to  a  dreadful  death!  These  things,  in  the 
light  in  which  I  now  viewed  them,  were  cogent  evidences 
against  her. 

"It  must  have  been  written  to  some  one  about  us!"  said 
the  Duchess  at  length.  "To  some  one  in  our  confidence. 
'On  our  side  of  the  door,'  as  he  calls  it." 

"Yes,  that  is  certain,"  I  said. 

"And  on  the  wrapper  he  styles  her  Mistress  Clarence. 
Now  who " 

"Who  could  it  have  been?  That  is  the  question  we  have 
to  answer, "  Master  Bertie  replied  dryly.  Hearing  his  voice, 
I  knew  he  had  come  at  last  to  the  same  conclusion  to  which 
I  had  jumped.  "I  think  you  may  dismiss  the  servants  from 
the  inquiry,"  he  continued.  "The  Bishop  of  Winchester 
would  scarcely  write  to  them  in  that  style." 

"Dismiss  the  servants?  Then  who  is  left?"  she  pro- 
tested. 

"I  think "  He  lost  courage,  hesitated,  and  broke  off. 

She  looked  at  him  wonderingly.  He  turned  to  me,  and, 
gaining  confirmation  from  my  nod,  began  again.  "I  think 
I  should  ask  A B , "  he  said. 

"A B ?"  she  cried,  still  not  seeing  one  whit. 

"Yes.     Anne  Brandon,"  he  answered  sternly. 

She  repeated  his  words  softly  and  stood  a  moment  gazing 
at  him.  In  that  moment  she  saw  it  all.  She  sat  down  sud- 
denly on  the  chair  beside  her  and  shuddered  violently,  as 
if  she  had  laid  her  hand  unwittingly  upon  a  snake.  "Oh, 
Richard,"  she  whispered,  "it  is  too  horrible!'' 

"I  fear  it  is  too  true,"  he  answered  gloomily. 

I  shrank  from  looking  at  them,  from  meeting  her  eyes  or 
his.  I  felt  as  if  this  shame  had  come  upon  us  all.  The 
thought  that  the  culprit  might  walk  into  the  room  at  any 
moment  filled  me  with  terror.  I  turned  away  and  looked 
through  the  window,  leaving  the  husband  and  wife  together. 

"Is  it  only  the  name  you  are  thinking  of?"  she  muttered. 

"No,"  he  answered.  "Before  I  left  England  to  go  to 
Calais  I  saw  something  pass  between  them — between  her 


A   LETTER    THAT  HAD  MANY  ESCAPES.         197 

and  Clarence — which,  surprised  me.     Only  in  the  confusion 
of  those  last  days  it  slipped  from  my  memory  for  the  time." 
"I  see,"  she  said  quietly.     "The  villain!" 

Looking  back  on  the  events  of  the  last  week,  I  found 
many  things  made  plain  by  the  lurid  light  now  cast  upon 
them.  I  understood  how  Master  Lindstrom's  vase  had 
come  to  be  broken  when  we  were  discussing  the  letter, 
which  in  my  hands  must  have  been  a  perpetual  terror  to  the 
girl.  I  discerned  that  she  had  purposely  sown  dissension 
between  myself  and  Van  Tree,  and  recalled  how  she  had 
striven  to  persuade  us  not  to  leave  the  island ;  then,  how  she 
had  induced  us  to  take  that  unlucky  road ;  finally,  how  on 
the  road  her  horse  had  lagged  and  lagged  behind,  detaining 
us  all  when  every  minute  was  precious.  The  things  all  dove- 
tailed into  one  another;  each  by  itself  was  weak,  but  together 
they  formed  a  strong  scaffold — a  scaffold  strong  enough  for 
the  hanging  of  a  man,  if  she  had  been  a  man !  The  others 
appealed  to  me,  the  Duchess  feverishly  anxious  to  be  assured 
one  way  or  the  other.  The  very  suspicion  of  the  existence 
of  such  treachery  at  her  side  seemed  to  stifle  her.  Still 
looking  out  of  the  window  I  detailed  the  proofs  I  have  men- 
tioned, not  gladly,  Heaven  knows,  or  in  any  spirit  of 
revenge.  But  my  duty  was  rather  to  my  companions  who 
had  been  true  to  me,  than  to  her.  I  told  them  the  truth  as 
far  as  I  knew  it.  The  whole  wretched,  miserable  truth  was 
only  to  become  known  to  me  later. 

"I  will  go  to  her,"  the  Duchess  said  presently,  rising 
from  her  seat. 

"My  dear!"  her  husband  cried.  He  stretched  out  his 
hand,  and  grasping  her  skirt  detained  her.  "You  will 
not " 

"Do  not  be  afraid!"  she  replied  sadly,  as  she  stooped 
over  him  and  kissed  his  forehead.  "It  is  a  thing  past 
scolding,  Richard;  past  love  and  even  hope,  and  all  but 
past  pity.  I  will  be  merciful  as  we  hope  for  mercy,  but  she 
can  never  be  friend  of  ours  again,  and  some  one  must  tell 
her.  I  will  do  so  and  return.  As  for  that  man!"  she  con- 
tinued, obscuring  suddenly  the  fair  and  noble  side  of  her 
character  which  she  had  just  exhibited,  and  which  I  confess 
had  surprised  me,  for  1  had  not  thought  her  capable  of  a 


198  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

generosity  so  uncommon;  "as  for  that  man,"  she  repeated, 
drawing  herself  up  to  her  full  height,  while  her  eyes  sparkled 
and  her  cheek  grew  red,  "who  has  turned  her  into  a  vile 
schemer  and  a  shameless  hypocrite,  as  he  would  fain  have 
turned  better  women,  I  will  show  him  no  mercy  nor  grace 
if  I  ever  have  him  under  my  feet.  I  will  crush  him  as  I 
would  an  adder,  though  I  be  crushed  next  moment  myself!" 

She  was  sweeping  with  that  word  from  the  room,  and  had 
nearly  reached  the  door  before  I  found  my  voice.  Then  I 
called  out  "Stay!"  just  in  time.  "You  will  do  no  good, 
madam,  by  going!"  I  said,  rising.  "You  will  not  find  her. 
She  is  gone." 

"Gone?" 

"Yes,"  I  said  quietly.  "She  left  the  house  twenty  min- 
utes ago.  I  saw  her  cross  the  market-place,  wearing  her 
cloak  and  carrying  a  bag.  I  do  not  think  she  will  return." 

"Not  return?  But  whither  has  she  gone?"  they  both 
cried  at  once. 

I  shook  my  head. 

"I  can  only  guess,"  I  said  in  a  low  voice.  "I  saw  no 
more  than  I  have  told  you." 

"But  why  did  you  not  tell  me'"  the  Duchess  cried 
reproachfully.  "She  shall  be  brought  back." 

"It  would  be  useless,"  Master  Bertie  answered.  "Yet  I 
doubt  if  it  be  as  Carey  thinks.  Why  should  she  go  just  at 
this  time?  She  does  not  know  that  she  is  found  out.  She 
does  not  know  that  this  letter  has  been  recovered.  Not  a 
word,  mind,  was  said  of  it  before  she  left  the  room." 

"No,"  I  allowed;  "that  is  true." 

I  was  puzzled  on  this  point  myself,  now  I  came  to  con- 
sider it.  I  could  not  see  why  she  had  taken  the  alarm  so 
opportunely;  but  I  maintained  my  opinion  nevertheless. 

"Something  frightened  her,"  I  said;  "though  it  may  not 
have  been  the  letter." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Duchess,  after  a  moment's  silence.  "I 
suppose  you  are  right.  I  suppose  something  frightened 
her,  as  you  say.  I  wonder  what  it  was,  poor  wretch!" 

It  turned  out  that  I  was  right.  Mistress  Anne  had  gone 
indeed,  having  stayed,  so  far  as  we  could  learn  from  an 
examination  of  the  room  which  she  had  shared  with 


A   LETTER    THAT  HAD  MANY  ESCAPES.         199 

Dymphna,  merely  to  put  together  the  few  things  which  our 
adventures  had  left  her.  She  had  gone  out  from  among 
us  in  this  foreign  land  without  a  word  of  farewell,  without 
a  good  wish  given  or  received,  without  a  soul  to  say  God 
speed '  The  thought  made  me  tremble.  If  she  had  died  it 
would  have  been  different.  Now,  to  feel  sorrow  for  her  as 
for  one  who  had  been  with  us  in  heart  as  well  as  in  body, 
seemed  a  mockery.  How  could  we  grieve  for  one  who  had 
moved  day  by  day  and  hour  by  hour  among  us,  only  that 
with  each  hour  and  day  she  might  plot  and  scheme  and 
plan  our  destruction?  It  was  impossible! 

We  made  inquiries  indeed,  but  without  result;  and  so, 
abruptly  and  terribly  she  passed — for  the  time — out  of  our 
knowledge,  though  often  afterward  I  recalled  sadly  the 
weary,  hunted  look  which  I  had  sometimes  seen  in  her  eyes 
when  she  sat  listless  and  dreamy.  Poor  girl!  Her  own 
acts  had  placed  her,  as  the  Duchess  said,  beyond  love  or 
hope,  but  not  beyond  pity. 

So  it  is  in  life.  The  day  which  sees  one's  trial  end  sees 
another's  begin.  We — the  Duchess  and  her  child,  Master 
Bertie  and  I — stayed  with  our  good  and  faithful  friends  the 
Lindstroms  a  while,  resting  and  recruiting  our  strength ;  and 
during  this  interval,  at  the  pressing  instance  of  the  Duchess, 
I  wrote  letters  to  Sir  Anthony  and  Petronilla,  stating  that  I 
was  abroad,  and  was  well,  and  looked  presently  to  return; 
but  not  disclosing  my  refuge  or  the  names  of  my  compan- 
ions. At  the  end  of  five  days,  Master  Bertie  being  fairly 
strong  again  and  Santon  being  considered  unsafe  for  us  as  a 
permanent  residence,  we  went  under  guard  to  Wesel,  where 
we  were  received  as  people  of  quality,  and  lodged,  there 
being  no  fitting  place,  in  the  disused  church  of  St.  Willi- 
brod.  Here  the  child  was  christened  Peregrine — a  wan- 
derer; the  governor  of  the  city  and  I  being  godfathers. 
And  here  we  lived  in  peace — albeit  with  hearts  that  yearned 
for  home — for  some  months. 

During  this  time  two  pieces  of  news  came  to  us  from 
England:  one,  that  the  Parliament,  though  much  pressed 
to  it,  had  refused  to  acquiesce  in  the  confiscation  of  the 
Duchess's  estates;  the  other,  that  our  joint  persecutor,  the 
great  Bishop  of  Winchester,  was  dead.  This  last  we  at 
first  disbelieved.  It  was  true,  nevertheless.  Stephen  Gar- 


200  THE  STOR  Y  OF  FRANCIS  CL  UDDE. 

diner,  whose  vast  schemes  had  enmeshed  people  so  far  apart 
in  station,  and  indeed  in  all  else,  as  the  Duchess  and  myself, 
was  dead  at  last;  had  died  toward  the  end  of  1555,  at  the 
height  of  his  power,  with  England  at  his  feet,  and  gone  to 
his  Maker.  I  have  known  many  worse  men. 

We  trusted  that  this  might  open  the  way  for  our  return, 
but  we  found  on  the  contrary  that  fresh  clouds  were  rising. 
The  persecution  of  the  Reformers,  which  Queen  Mary  had 
begun  in  England,  was  carried  on  with  increasing  rigor,  and 
her  husband,  who  was  now  King  of  Spain  and  master  of  the 
Netherlands,  freed  from  the  prudent  checks  of  his  father, 
was  inclined  to  pleasure  her  in  this  by  giving  what  aid  he 
could  abroad.  His  Minister  in  the  Netherlands,  the  Bishop 
of  Arras,  brought  so  much  pressure  to  bear  upon  our  pro- 
tector to  induce  him  to  give  us  up,  that  it  was  plain  the 
Duke  of  Cleves  must  sooner  or  later  comply.  We  thought 
it  better,  therefore,  to  remove  ourselves,  and  presently  did  so, 
going  to  the  town  of  Winnheim  in  the  Rhine  Palatinate. 

We  found  ourselves  not  much  more  secure  here,  however, 
and  all  our  efforts  to  discover  a  safe  road  into  France  fail- 
ing, and  the  stock  of  money  which  the  Duchess  had  pro- 
vided beginning  to  give  out,  we  were  in  great  straits  whither 
to  go  or  what  to  do. 

At  this  time  of  our  need,  however,  Providence  opened  a 
door  in  a  quarter  where  we  least  looked  for  it.  Letters 
came  from  Sigismund,  the  King  of  Poland,  and  from  the 
Palatine  of  Wilna  in  that  country,  inviting  the  Duchess  and 
Master  Bertie  to  take  up  their  residence  there,  and  offering 
the  latter  an  establishment  and  honorable  employment. 
The  overture  was  unlocked  for,  and  was  not  accepted  with- 
out misgivings,  Wilna  being  so  far  distant,  and  there  being 
none  of  our  race  in  that  country.  However,  assurance  of 
the  Polish  King's  good  faith  reached  us — I  say  us,  for  in  all 
their  plans  I  was  included — through  John  Alasco,  a  noble- 
man who  had  visited  England.  And  in  due  time  we  started 
on  this  prodigious  journey,  and  came  safely  to  Wilna,  where 
our  reception  was  such  as  the  letters  had  led  us  to  expect. 

I  do  not  propose  to  set  down  here  our  adventures,  though 
they  were  many,  in  that  strange  country  of  frozen  marshes 
and  endless  plains,  but  to  pass  over  eighteen  months  which 
I  spent  not  without  profit  to  myself  in  the  Pole's  service, 
seeing  something  of  war  in  his  Lithuanian  campaigns,  and 


A   LETTER    THAT  HAD  MANY  ESCAPES.         201 

learning  much  of  men  and  the  world,  which  here,  to  say 
nothing  of  wolves  and  bears,  bore  certain  aspects  not  com- 
monly visible  in  Warwickshire.  I  pass  on  to  the  early 
autumn  of  1558,  when  a  letter  from  the  Duchess,  who  was 
at  Wilna,  was  brought  to  me  at  Cracovy.  It  was  to  this 
effect: 

"Dear  Friend:  Send  you  good  speed!  Word  has  come 
to  us  here  of  an  enterprise  Englandward,  which  promises,  if 
it  be  truly  reported  to  us,  to  so  alter  things  at  home  that 
there  may  be  room  for  us  at  our  own  firesides.  Heaven 
so  further  it,  both  for  our  happiness  and  the  good  of  the 
religion.  Master  Bertie  has  embarked  on  it,  and  I  have 
taken  upon  myself  to  answer  for  your  aid  and  counsel, 
which  have  never  been  wanting  to  us.  Wherefore,  dear 
friend,  come,  sparing  neither  horse  nor  spurs,  nor  anything 
which  may  bring  you  sooner  to  Wilna,  and  your  assured  and 
loving  friend,  Katherine  Suffolk." 

In  five  days  after  receiving  this  I  was  at  Wilna,  and  two 
months  later  I  saw  England  again,  after  an  absence  of  three 
years.  Early  in  November,  1558,  Master  Bertie  and  I  landed 
at  Lovvestoft,  having  made  the  passage  from  Hamburg  in  a 
trading  vessel  of  that  place.  We  stopped  only  to  sleep  one 
night,  and  then,  dressed  as  traveling  merchants,  we  set  out 
on  the  road  to  London,  entering  the  city  without  accident 
or  hindrance  on  the  third  day  after  landing. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE    WITCH'S    WARNING. 

'/"VNE  minute!"  I  said.  "That  is  the  place." 
\J  Master  Bertie  turned  in  his  saddle,  and  looked  at  it. 
The  light  was  fading  into  the  early  dusk  of  a  November 
evening,  but  the  main  features  of  four  cross  streets,  the 
angle  between  two  of  them  filled  by  the  tall  belfry  of  a 
church,  were  still  to  be  made  out.  The  east  wind  had 
driven  loiterers  indoors,  and  there  was  scarcely  any  one 
abroad  to  notice  us.  I  pointed  to  a  dead  wall  ten  paces 
down  one  street.  "Opposite  that  they  stopped,"  I  said. 
"There  was  a  pile  of  boards  leaning  against  it  then." 

"You  have  had  many  a  worse  bedchamber  since,  lad," 
he  said,  smiling. 

"Many,"  I  answered.  And  then  by  a  common  impulse 
we  shook  up  the  horses,  and  trotting  gently  on  were  soon 
clear  of  London  and  making  for  Islington.  Passing 
through  the  latter  we  began  to  breast  the  steep  slope  which 
leads  to  Highgate,  and  coming,  when  we  had  reached  the 
summit,  plump  upon  the  lights  of  the  village,  pulled  up  in 
front  of  a  building  which  loomed  darkly  across  the  road. 

"This  is  the  Gatehouse  Tavern,"  Master  Bertie  said  in  a 
low  voice.  "We  shall  soon  know  whether  we  have  come  on 
a  fool's  errand — or  worse!" 

We  rode  under  the  archway  into  a  great  courtyard,  from 
which  the  road  issued  again  on  the  other  side  through 
another  gate.  In  one  corner  two  men  were  littering  down 
a  line  of  packhorses  by  the  light  of  the  lanterns,  which 
brought  their  tanned  and  rugged  faces  into  relief.  In 
another,  where  the  light  poured  ruddily  from  an  open  door- 
way, an  ostler  was  serving  out  fodder,  and  doing  so,  if  we 
might  judge  from  the  travelers'  remonstrances,  with  a  nig- 
gardly hand.  From  the  windows  of  the  house  a  dozen  rays 
of  light  shot  athwart  the  darkness,  and  disclosed  as  many 


THE    WITCH'S   WARNING.  203 

pigs  wallowing  asleep  in  the  middle  of  the  yard.  In  all  we 
saw  a  coarse  comfort  and  welcome.  Master  Bertie  led  the 
way  across  the  yard,  and  accosted  the  ostler.  "Can  we 
have  stalls  and  beds?"  he  asked. 

The  man  stayed  his  chaffering,  and  looked  up  at  us. 
"Every  man  to  his  business,"  he  replied  gruffly.  "Stalls, 
yes;  but  of  beds  I  know  nothing.  For  women's  work  go  to 
the  women." 

"Right!"  said  I,  "so  we  will.  With  better  luck  than 
you  would  go,  I  expect,  my  man!" 

Bursting  into  a  hoarse  laugh  at  this — he  was  lame  and 
one-eyed  and  not  very  well-favored — he  led  us  into  a  long, 
many-stalled  stable,  feebly  lit  by  lanterns  which  here  and 
there  glimmered  against  the  walls.  "Suit  yourselves,"  he 
said;  "first  come  is  first  served  here." 

He  seemed  an  ill-conditioned  fellow,  but  the  businesslike 
way  in  which  we  went  about  our  work,  watering,  feeding, 
and  littering  down  in  old  campaigners'  fashion,  drew  from 
him  a  grunt  of  commendation.  "Have  you  come  from  far, 
masters?"  he  asked. 

"No,  from  London,"  I  answered  curtly.  "We  come  as 
linen-drapers  from  Westcheap,  if  you  want  to  know." 

"Ay,  I  see  that,"  he  said  chuckling.  "Never  were  atop 
of  a  horse  before  nor  handled  anything  but  a  clothyard;  oh, 
no!" 

"We  want  a  merchant  reputed  to  sell  French  lace,"  I 
continued,  looking  hard  at  him.  "Do  you  happen  to  know 
if  there  is  a  dealer  here  with  any?" 

He  nodded  rather  to  himself  than  to  me,  as  if  he  had 
expected  the  question.  Then  in  the  same  tone,  but  with  a 
quick  glance  of  intelligence,  he  answered,  "I  will  show  you 
into  the  house  presently,  and  you  can  see  for  yourselves. 
A  stable  is  no  place  for  French  lace."  He  pointed  with  a 
wink  over  his  shoulder  toward  a  stall  in  which  a  man, 
apparently  drunk,  lay  snoring.  "That  is  a  fine  toy!"  he 
ran  on  carelessly,  as  I  removed  my  dagger  from  the  holster 
and  concealed  it  under  my  cloak — "a  fine  plaything — for  a 
linen  draper!" 

"Peace,  peace,  man!  and  show  us  in,"  said  Master 
Bertie  impatiently. 

With  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  the  man  obeyed.  Crossing 
the  courtyard  behind  him,  we  entered  the  great  kitchen, 


204  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

which,  full  of  light  and  warmtli  and  noise,  presented  just 
such  a  scene  of  comfort  and  bustle,  of  loud  talking,  red- 
faced  guests,  and  hurrying  bare-armed  serving-maids,  as  I 
remembered  lighting  upon  at  St.  Albans  three  years  back. 
But  I  had  changed  much  since  then,  and  seen  much.  The 
bailiff  himself  would  hardly  have  recognized  his  old  antago- 
nist in  the  tall,  heavily  cloaked  stranger,  whose  assured  air, 
acquired  amid  wild  surroundings  in  a  foreign  land,  gave 
him  a  look  of  age  to  which  I  could  not  fairly  lay  claim. 
Master  Bertie  had  assigned  the  lead  to  me  as  being  in  less 
danger  of  recognition,  and  I  followed  the  ostler  toward  the 
hearth  without  hesitation.  "Master  Jenkin!"  the  man 
cried,  with  the  same  rough  bluntness  he  had  shown  without, 
"here  are  two  travelers  want  the  lace-seller  who  was  here 
to-day.  Has  he  gone?" 

"Who  gone?"  retorted  the  host  as  loudly. 

"The  lace  merchant  who  came  this  morning." 

"No;  he  is  in  No.  32,"  returned  the  landlord.  "Will 
you  sup  first,  gentlemen?" 

We  declined,  and  followed  the  ostler,  who  made  no  secret 
of  our  destination,  telling  those  in  our  road  to  make  way,  as 
the  gentlemen  were  for  No.  32.  One  of  the  crowd,  however, 
who  seemed  to  be  crossing  from  the  lower  end  of  the  room, 
failed  apparently  to  understand,  and,  interposing  between 
us  and  our  guide,  brought  me  perforce  to  a  halt. 

'  'By  your  leave,  good  woman!"  I  said,  and  turned  to  pass 
round  her. 

But  she  foiled  me  with  unexpected  nimbleness,  and  I 
could  not  push  her  aside,  she  was  so  very  old.  Her  gums 
were  toothless  and  her  forehead  was  lined  and  wrinkled. 
About  her  eyes,  which  under  hideous  red  lids  still  shone 
with  an  evil  gleam — a  kind  of  reflection  of  a  wicked  past — a 
thousand  crows'  feet  had  gathered.  A  few  wisps  of  gray 
hair  struggled  from  under  the  handkerchief  which  covered 
her  head.  She  was  humpbacked,  and  stooped  over  a  stick, 
and  whether  she  saw  or  not  my  movement  of  repugnance, 
her  voice  was  harsh  when  she  spoke. 

"Young  gentleman,"  she  croaked,  "let  me  tell  your  for- 
tune by  the  stars.  A  fortune  for  a  groat,  young  gentle- 
man!" she  continued,  peering  up  into  my  face  and  frus- 
trating my  attempts  to  pass. 


THE    WITCH'S    WARNING.  205 

"Here  is  a  groat,"  I  answered  peevishly,  "and  for ~ the 
fortune,  I  will  hear  it  another  day.  So  let  us  by!" 

But  she  would  not.  My  companion,  seeing  that  the 
attention  of  the  room  was  being  drawn  to  us,  tried  to  pull 
me  by  her.  But  I  could  not  use  force,  and  short  of  force 
there  was  no  remedy.  The  ostler,  indeed,  would  have  inter- 
fered on  our  behalf,  and  returned  to  bid  her,  with  a  civility 
he  had  not  bestowed  on  us,  "give  us  passage."  But  she 
swiftly  turned  her  eyes  on  him  in  a  sinister  fashion,  and  he 
retreated  with  an  oath  and  a  paling  face,  while  those  nearest 
to  us — and  half  a  dozen  had  crowded  round — drew  back, 
and  crossed  themselves  in  haste  almost  ludicrous. 

"Let  me  see  your  face,  young  gentleman,"  she  persisted, 
with  a  hollow  cough.  "My  eyes  are  not  so  clear  as  they 
were,  or  it  is  not  your  cloak  and  your  flap-hat  that  would 
blind  me." 

Thinking  it  best  to  get  rid  of  her,  even  at  a  slight  risk — and 
the  chance  that  among  the  travelers  present  there  would  be 
one  able  to  recognize  me  was  small  indeed — I  uncovered. 
She  shot  a  piercing  glance  at  my  face,  and  looking  down 
on  the  floor,  traced  hurriedly  a  figure  with  her  stick.  She 
studied  the  phantom  lines  a  moment,  and  then  looked  up. 

"Listen ! "  she  said  solemnly,  and  waving  her  stick  round 
me,  she  quavered  out  in  tones  which  filled  me  with  a 
strange  tremor: 

"  The  man  goes  east,  and  the  wind  blows  west, 
Wood  to  the  head,  and  steel  to  the  breast  ! 
The  man  goes  west,  and  the  wind  blows  east, 
The  neck  twice  doomed  the  gallows  shall  feast  ! 

"Beware!"  she  went  on  more  loudly,  and  harshly,  tap- 
ping with  her  stick  on  the  floor,  and  snaking  her  palsied 
head  at  me.  "Beware,  unlucky  shoot  of  a  crooked  branch! 
Go  no  farther  with  it!  Go  back!  The  sword  may  miss  or 
may  not  fall,  but  the  cord  is  sure!" 

If  Master  Bertie  had  not  held  my  arm  tigthly,  I  should 
have  recoiled,  as  most  of  those  within  hearing  had  already 
done.  The  strange  allusions  to  my  past,  which  I  had  no 
difficulty  in  detecting,  and  the  witch's  knowledge  of  the 
risks  of  our  present  enterprise,  were  enough  to  startle  and 
shake  the  most  constant  mind ;  and  in  the  midst  of  enter- 
prises secret  and  dangerous,  few  minds  are  so  firm  or  so 


206  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

reckless  as  to  disdain  omens.  That  she  was  one  of  those 
unhappy  beings  who  buy  dark  secrets  at  the  expense  of  their 
souls,  seemed  certain ;  and  had  I  been  alone,  I  should  have, 
I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  it,  given  back. 

But  I  was  lucky  in  having  for  my  companion  a  man  of 
rare  mind,  and  besides  of  so  single  a  religious  belief  that  to 
the  end  of  his  life  he  always  refused  to  put  faith  in  a  thing 
of  the  existence  of  which  I  have  no  doubt  myself — I  mean 
witchcraft. 

He  showed  at  this  moment  the  courage  of  his  opinions. 
"Peace,  peace,  woman!"  he  said  compassionately.  "We 
shall  live  while  God  wills  it,  and  die  when  he  wills  it.  And 
neither  live  longer  nor  die  earlier!  So  let  us  by." 

"Would  you  perish?"  she  quavered. 

"Ay!     If  so  God  wills,"  he  answered  undaunted. 

At  that  she  seemed  to  shake  all  over,  and  hobbled  aside, 
muttering,  "Then  go  on!  Go  on!  God  wills  it!" 

Master  Bertie  gave  me  no  time  for  hesitation,  but,  hold- 
ing my  arm,  urged  me  on  to  where  the  ostler  stood  awaiting 
the  event  with  a  face  of  much  discomposure.  He  opened 
the  door  for  us,  however,  and  led  the  way  up  a  narrow  and 
not  too  clean  staircase.  On  the  landing  at  the  head  of  this 
he  paused,  and  raised  his  lantern  so  as  to  cast  the  light  on 
our  faces.  "She  has  overlooked  me,  the  old  witch!"  he 
said  viciously;  "I  wish  I  had  never  meddled  in  this  busi- 
ness." 

"Man!"  Master  Bertie  replied  sternly;  "do  you  fear 
that  weak  old  woman?" 

"No;  but  I  fear  her  master,"  retorted  the  ostler,  "and 
that  is  the  devil!" 

"Then  I  do  not,"  Master  Bertie  answered  bravely. 
"For  my  Master  is  as  good  a  match  for  him  as  I  am  for 
that  old  woman.  When  he  wills  it,  man,  you  will  die,  and 
not  before.  So  pluck  up  spirit." 

Master  Bertie  did  not  look  at  me,  though  I  needed  his 
encouragement  as  much  as  the  ostler,  having  had  better 
proofs  of  the  woman's  strange  knowledge.  But,  seeing  that 
his  exhortation  had  emboldened  this  ignorant  man,  I  was 
ashamed  to  seem  to  hesitate.  When  the  ostler  knocked  at 
the  door — not  of  32,  but  of  15 — and  it  presently  opened,  I 
went  in  without  more  ado. 


THE    WITCH'S    WARNING.  207 

The  room  was  a  bare  inn-chamber.  A  pallet  without 
coverings  lay  in  one  corner.  In  the  middle  were  a  couple 
of  stools,  and  on  one  of  them  a  taper. 

The  person  who  had  opened  to  us  stood  eying  us  atten* 
lively ;  a  bluff,  weather-beaten  man  with  a  thick  beard  and 
the  air  of  a  sailor.  "Well,"  he  said,  "what  now?" 

"These  gentlemen  want  to  buy  some  lace,"  the  ostler 
explained. 

"What  lace  do  they  want?"  was  the  retort. 

"French  lace,"  I  answered. 

"You  have  come  to  the  right  shop,  then,"  the  man 
answered  briskly.  Nodding  to  our  conductor  to  depart,  he 
carefully  let  him  out.  Then,  barring  the  door  behind  him, 
he  as  rapidly  strode  to  the  pallet  and  twitched  it  aside,  dis- 
closing a  trap  door.  He  lifted  this,  and  we  saw  a  narrow 
shaft  descending  into  darkness.  He  brought  the  taper  and 
held  it  so  as  to  throw  a  faint  light  into  the  opening.  There 
was  no  ladder,  but  blocks  of  wood  nailed  alternately  against 
two  of  the  sides,  at  intervals  of  a  couple  of  feet  or  so,  made 
the  descent  pretty  easy  for  an  active  man.  "The  door  is 
on  this  side,"  he  said,  pointing  out  the  one.  "Knock 
loudly  once  and  softly  twice.  The  word  is  the  same." 

We  nodded  and  while  he  held  the  taper  above,  we  de- 
scended, one  by  one,  without  much  difficulty,  though  I 
admit  that  half-way  down  the  old  woman's  words  "Go  on 
and  perish"  came  back  disquietingly  to  my  mind.  How- 
ever, my  foot  struck  the  bottom  before  I  had  time  to  digest 
them,  and  a  streak  of  light  which  seemed  to  issue  from 
under  a  door  forced  my  thoughts  the  next  moment  into 
a  new  channel.  Whispering  to  Master  Bertie  to  pause  a 
minute,  for  there  was  only  room  for  one  of  us  to  stand  at 
the  bottom  of  the  shaft,  I  knocked  in  the  fashion  prescribed. 

The  sound  of  loud  voices,  which  I  had  already  detected, 
ceased  on  a  sudden,  and  I  heard  a  shuffling  on  the  other 
side  of  the  boards.  This  was  followed  by  silence,  and  then 
the  door  was  flung  open,  and,  blinded  for  the  moment  by  a 
blaze  of  light,  I  walked  mechanically  forward  into  a  room. 
I  made  out  as  I  advanced  a  group  of  men  standing  round  a 
rude  table,  their  figures  thrown  into  dark  relief  by  flares 
stuck  in  sconces  on  the  walls  behind  them.  Some  had 
weapons  in  their  hands  and  others  had  partly  risen  from 


208  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

their  seats  and  stood  in  postures  of  surprise.  "What  do 
you  seek?"  cried  a  threatening  voice  from  among  them. 

"Lace,"  I  answered. 

"What  lace?" 

"French  lace." 

"Then  you  are  welcome — heartily  welcome!"  was  the 
answer  given  in  a  tone  of  relief.  "But  who  comes  with 
you?" 

"Master  Richard  Bertie,  of  Lincolnshire,"  I  answered 
promptly;  and  at  that  moment  he  emerged  from  the  shaft. 

A  still  more  hearty  murmur  of  welcome  hailed  his  name 
and  appearance,  and  we  were  borne  forward  to  the  table 
amid  a  chorus  of  voices,  the  greeting  given  to  Master  Bertie 
being  that  of  men  who  joyfully  hail  unlooked-for  help. 
The  room,  from  its  vaulted  ceiling  and  stone  floor,  and  the 
trams  of  casks  which  lay  here  and  there  or  near  the  table 
serving  for  seats,  appeared  to  be  a  cellar.  Its  dark,  gloomy 
recesses,  the  flaring  lights,  and  the  weapons  on  the  table, 
seemed  meet  and  fitting  surroundings  for  the  anxious  faces 
which  were  gathered  about  the  board ;  for  there  was  a 
something  in  the  air  which  was  not  so  much  secrecy  as  a 
thing  more  unpleasant — suspicion  and  mistrust.  Almost  at 
the  moment  of  our  entrance  it  showed  itself.  One  of  the 
men,  before  the  door  had  well  closed  behind  us,  went 
toward  it,  as  if  to  go  out.  The  leader — he  who  had  ques- 
tioned me — called  sharply  to  him",  bidding  him  come 
back.  And  he  came  back,  but  reluctantly,  as  it  seemed 
to  me. 

I  barely  noticed  this,  for  Master  Bertie,  who  was  known 
personally  to  many  and  by  name  to  all,  was  introducing  me 
to  two  who  were  apparently  the  leaders:  Sir  Thomas  Pen- 
ruddocke,  a  fair  man  as  tall  as  myself,  loose-limbed  and 
untidily  dressed,  with  a  reckless  eye  and  a  loud  tongue; 
and  Master  Walter  Kingston,  a  younger  brother,  I  was  told, 
of  that  Sir  Anthony  Kingston  who  had  suffered  death  the 
year  before  for  conspiracy  against  the  queen — the  same  in 
which  Lord  Devon  had  showed  the  white  feather.  King- 
ston was  a  young  man  of  moderate  height  and  slender;  of 
a  brown  complexion,  and  delicate,  almost  womanish  beauty, 
his  sleepy  dark  eyes  and  dainty  mustache  suggesting  a  tem- 
per rather  amiable  than  firm.  But  the  spirit  of  revenge  had 
entered  into  him,  and  I  soon  learned  that  not  even  Pen- 


THE    WITCH'S    WARNING.  209 

ruddocke,  a  Cornish  knight  of  longer  lineage  than  purse, 
was  so  vehement  a  plotter  or  so  devoted  to  the  cause. 
Looking  at  the  others  my  heart  sank;  it  needed  no  greater 
experience  than  mine  to  discern  that,  except  three  or  four 
whom  I  identified  as  stout  professors  of  religion,  they  were 
men  rather  of  desperate  fortunes  than  good  estate.  I 
learned  on  the  instant  that  conspiracy  makes  strange  bed- 
fellows, and  that  it  is  impossible  to  do  dirty  work  even  with 
the  purest  intentions — in  good  company !  Master  Bertie's 
face  indicated  to  one  who  knew  him  as  well  as  I  did  some- 
thing of  the  same  feeling;  and  could  the  clock  have  been 
put  back  awhile,  and  we  placed  with  free  hands  and  uncom- 
mitted outside  the  Gatehouse,  I  think  we  should  with  one 
accord  have  turned  our  backs  on  it,  and  given  up  an 
attempt  which  in  this  company  could  scarcely  fare  any  way 
but  ill.  Still,  for  good  or  evil,  the  die  was  cast  now,  and 
retreat  was  out  of  the  question. 

We  had  confronted  too  many  dangers  during  the  last 
three  years  not  to  be  able  to  face  this  one  with  a  good  cour- 
age ;  and  presently  Master  Bertie,  taking  a  seat,  requested 
to  be  told  of  the  strength  and  plans  of  our  associates,  his 
businesslike  manner  introducing  at  once  some  degree  of 
order  and  method  into  a  conference  which  before  our 
arrival  had — unless  I  was  much  mistaken — been  conspicu- 
ously lacking  in  both. 

"Our  resources?"  Penruddocke  replied  confidently. 
"They  lie  everywhere,  man !  We  have  but  to  raise  the  flag 
and  the  rest  will  be  a  triumphal  march.  The  people,  sick 
of  burnings  and  torturings,  and  heated  by  the  loss  of  Calais 
last  January,  will  flock  to  us.  Flock  to  us,  do  I  say?  I 
will  answer  for  it  they  will!" 

"But  you  have  some  engagements,  some  promises  from 
people  of  standing?" 

"Oh,  yes!  But  the  whole  nation  will  join  us.  They  are 
weary  of  the  present  state  of  things." 

"They  may  be  as  weary  of  it  as  you  say,"  Master  Bertie 
answered  shrewdly ;  '  'but  is  it  equally  certain  that  they  will 
risk  their  necks  to  amend  it?  You  have  fixed  upon  some 
secure  base  from  which  we  can  act,  and  upon  which,  if 
necessary,  we  may  fall  back  to  concentrate  our  strength?" 

"Fall  back?"  cried  Penruddocke,  rising  from  his  seat  in 
heat.  "Master  Bertie,  I  hope  you  have  not  come  among 


210  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

us  to  talk  of  falling  back!  Let  us  have  no  talk  of  that.  If 
Wyatt  had  held  on  at  once  London  would  have  been  his! 
It  was  falling  back  ruined  him." 

Master  Bertie  shook  his  head.  "If  you  have  no  secure 
base,  you  run  the  risk  of  being  crushed  in  the  first  half 
hour,"  he  said.  "When  a  fire  is  first  lighted  the  breeze 
puts  it  out  which  afterward  but  fans  it." 

"You  will  not  say  that  when  you  hear  our  plans.  There 
are  to  be  three  risings  at  once.  Lord  Delaware  will  rise  in 
the  west." 

"But  will  he?"  said  Master  Bertie  pointedly,  disregarding 
the  threatening  looks  which  were  cast  at  him  by  more  than 
one.  "The  late  rebellion  there  was  put  down  very  sum- 
marily, and  I  should  have  thought  that  countryside  would 
not  be  prone  to  rise  again.  Will  Lord  Delaware  rise?" 

"Oh,  yes,  he  will  rise  fast  enough!"  Penruddocke 
replied  carelessly.  "I  will  answer  for  him.  And  on  the 
same  day,  while  we  do  the  London  business,  Sir  Richard 
Bray  will  gather  his  men  in  Kent." 

"Do  not  count  on  him!"  said  Master  Bertie.  "A  pris- 
oner, muffled  and  hoodwinked,  was  taken  to  the  Tower  by 
water  this  afternoon.  And  rumor  says  it  was  Sir  Richard 
Bray." 

There  was  a  pause  of  consternation,  during  which  one 
looked  at  another,  and  swarthy  faces  grew  pale.  Penrud- 
docke was  the  first  to  recover  himself.  "Bah!"  he  ex- 
claimed, "a  fig  for  rumor!  She  is  ever  a  lying  jade!  I 
will  bet  a  noble  Richard  Bray  is  supping  in  his  own  house 
at  this  minute." 

"Then  you  would  lose,"  Master  Bertie  rejoined  sadly, 
and  with  no  show  of  triumph.  "On  hearing  the  report  I 
sent  a  messenger  to  Sir  Richard's  house.  He  brought  word 
back  that  Sir  Richard  Bray  had  been  fetched  away  unex- 
pectedly by  four  men,  and  that  the  house  was  in  confusion." 

A  murmur  of  dismay  broke  out  at  the  lower  end  of  the 
table.  But  the  Cornishman  rose  to  the  situation.  "What 
matter?"  he  cried  boisterously.  "What  we  have  lost  in 
Bray  we  have  gained  in  Master  Bertie.  He  will  raise  Lin- 
colnshire for  us,  and  the  Duchess's  tenants.  There  should 
be  five  hundred  stout  men  of  the  latter,  and  two-thirds  of 
them  Protestants  at  heart.  If  Bray  has  been  seized  there 
is  the  more  call  for  haste  that  we  may  release  him." 


THE    WITCH'S    WARNING.  211 

This  appeal  was  answered  by  an  outburst  of  cries.  One 
or  two  even  rose,  and  waving  their  weapons  swore  a  speedy 
vengeance.  But  Master  Bertie  sat  silent  until  the  noise  had 
subsided.  Then  he  spoke.  "You  must  not  count  on  them 
either,  Sir  Thomas,"  he  said  firmly.  "I  cannot  find  it  in 
my  conscience  to  bring  my  wife's  tenants  into  a  plan  so 
desperate  as  this  appears  to  be.  To  appeal  to  the  people 
generally  is  one  thing;  to  call  on  those  who  are  bound  to 
us  and  who  cannot  in  honor  refuse  is  another.  And  I  will 
not  risk  in  a  hopeless  struggle  the  lives  of  men  whose  fathers 
looked  for  guidance  to  me  and  mine." 

A  silence,  the  silence  of  utter  astonishment,  fell  upon  the 
plotters  round  the  table.  In  every  face — and  they  were  all 
turned  upon  my  companion — I  read  rage  and  distrust  and 
dismay.  They  had  chafed  under  his  cold  criticisms  and 
his  calm  reasonings.  But  this  went  beyond  all,  and  there 
were  hands  which  stole  instinctively  to  daggers,  and  eyes 
which  waited  scowling  for  a  signal.  But  Penruddocke, 
sanguine  by  nature  and  rendered  reckless  by  circumstances, 
had  still  the  feelings  of  a  gentleman,  and  something  in  him 
responded  to  the  appeal  which  underlay  Master  Bertie's 
words.  He  remained  silent,  gazing  gloomily  at  the  table, 
his  eyes  perhaps  opened  at  this  late  hour  to  the  hopeless- 
ness of  the  attempt  he  meditated. 

It  was  Walter  Kingston  who  came  to  the  fore,  and  put 
into  words  the  thoughts  of  the  coarser  and  more  selfish 
spirits  round  him.  Leaping  from  his  seat  he  dashed  his 
slender  hand  on  the  table.  "What  does  this  mean?"  he 
sneered,  a  dangerous  light  in  his  dark  eyes.  "Those  only 
are  here  or  should  be  here  who  are  willing  to  stake  all — all, 
mind  you — on  the  cause.  Let  us  have  no  sneaks!  Let  us 
have  no  men  with  a  foot  on  either  bank!  Let  us  have  no 
Courtenays  nor  cowards!  Such  men  ruined  Wyatt  and 
hanged  my  brother!  A  curse  on  them!"  he  cried,  his 
voice  rising  almost  to  a  scream. 

"Master  Kingston!  do  you  refer  to  me?"  Bertie  rejoined 
in  haughty  surprise. 

"Ay,  I  do!"  cried  the  young  man  hotly. 

"Then  I  must  beg  leave  of  these  gentlemen  to  explain 
my  position." 

"Your  position?  So  !  More  words?"  quoth  the  other 
mockingly. 


212  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

"Ay!  as  many  words  as  I  please,"  retorted  Master  Ber- 
tie, his  color  rising.  "Afterward  I  will  be  as  ready  with 
deeds,  I  dare  swear,  as  any  other!  My  tenants  and  my 
wife's  I  will  not  draw  into  an  almost  hopeless  struggle.  But 
my  own  life  and  my  friend's,  since  we  have  obtained  your 
secrets,  I  must  risk,  and  I  will  do  so  in  honor  to  the  death. 
For  the  rest,  who  doubts  my  courage  may  test  it  below 
ground  or  above." 

The  young  man  laughed  rudely.  "You  will  risk  your 
life,  but  not  your  lands,  Master  Bertie?  That  is  the  posi- 
tion, is  it?" 

My  companion  was  about  to  utter  a  rejoinder,  fierce  for 
him,  when  I,  who  had  hitherto  sat  silent,  interposed.  "The 
old  witch  told  the  truth,"  I  cried  bitterly.  "She  said  if  we 
came  hither  we  should  perish.  And  perish  we  shall, 
through  being  linked  to  a  dozen  men  as  brave  as  I  could 
wish,  but  the  biggest  fools  under  heaven!" 

"Fools?"  shouted  Kingston. 

"Ay,  fools!"  I  repeated.  "For  who  but  fools,  being  at 
sea  in  a  boat  in  which  all  must  sink  or  swim,  would  fall 
a-quarreling?  Tell  me  that!"  I  cried,  slapping  the  table. 

"You  are  about  right,"  Penruddocke  said,  and  half  a 
dozen  voices  muttered  assent. 

"About  right,  is  he?"  shrieked  Kingston.  "But  who 
knows  we  are  in  a  boat  together?  Who  knows  that,  I'd 
like  to  hear?" 

"I  do!"  I  said,  standing  up  and  overtopping  him  by 
eight  inches.  "And  if  any  man  hints  that  Master  Bertie  is 
here  for  any  other  purpose  or  with  any  other  intent  than  to 
honestly  risk  his  life  in  this  endeavor  as  becomes  a  gentle- 
man, let  him  stand  out — let  him  stand  out,  and  I  will  break 
his  neck!  Fie,  gentlemen,  fie!"  I  continued,  after  a  short 
pause,  which  I  did  not  make  too  long  lest  Master  King- 
ston's passion  should  get  the  better  of  his  prudence. 
"Though  I  am  young  I  have  seen  service.  But  I  never 
saw  battle  won  yet  with  dissension  in  the  camp.  For 
shame!  Let  us  to  business,  and  make  the  best  dispositions 
we  may." 

"You  talk  sense,  Master  Carey!"  Penruddocke  cried, 
with  a  great  oath.  "Give  me  your  hand.  And  do  you, 
Kingston,  hold  your  peace.  If  Master  Bertie  will  not  raise 
his  men  to  save  his  own  skin,  he  will  hardly  do  it  for  ours. 


THE    WITCH'S   WARNING.  213 

Now,  Sir  Richard  Bray  being  taken,  what  is  to  be  done, 
my  lads  ?     Come,  let  us  look  to  that." 

So  the  storm  blew  over.  But  it  was  with  heavy  hearts 
that  two  of  us  fell  to  the  discussion  which  followed,  count- 
ing over  weapons  and  assigning  posts,  and  debating  this 
one's  fidelity  and  that  one's  lukewarmness.  Our  first  im- 
pressions had  not  deceived  us.  The  plot  was  desperate,  and 
those  engaged  in  it  were  wanting  in  every  element  which 
should  command  success — in  information,  forethought,  ar- 
rangement— everything  save  sheer  audacity.  When  after 
a  prolonged  and  miserable  sitting  it  was  proposed  that  all 
should  take  the  oath  of  association  on  the  Gospels,  Master 
Bertie  and  I  assented  gloomily.  It  would  make  our  posi- 
tion no  worse,  for  already  we  were  fully  committed.  The 
position  was  indeed  bad  enough.  We  had  only  persuaded 
the  others  to  a  short  delay;  and  even  this  meant  that  we 
must  remain  in  hiding  in  England,  exposed  from  day  to  day 
to  all  the  chances  of  detection  and  treachery. 

Sir  Thomas  brought  out  from  some  secret  place  about  him 
a  tiny  roll  of  paper  wrapped  in  a  quill,  and  while  we  stood 
about  him  looking  over  his  shoulders,  he  laboriously  added, 
letter  by  letter,  three  or  four  names.  The  stern,  anxious 
faces  which  peered  the  while  at  the  document  or  scanned 
each  other  only  to  find  their  anxiety  reflected,  the  flaring 
lights  behind  us,  the  recklessness  of  some  and  the  distrust  of 
others,  the  cloaks  in  which  many  were  wrapped  to  the  chin, 
and  the  occasional  gleam  of  hidden  weapons,  made  up  a 
scene  very  striking.  The  more  as  it  was  no  mere  show,  but 
some  of  us  saw  only  too  distinctly  behind  it  the  figure  of 
the  headsman  and  the  block. 

"Now,"  said  Penruddocke,  who  himself  I  think  took  a 
certain  grim  pleasure  in  the  formality,  "be  ready  to  swear, 
gentlemen,  in  pairs,  as  I  call  the  names.  Kingston  and 
Matthewson!" 

Lolling  against  the  wall  under  one  of  the  sconces  I  looked 
at  Master  Bertie,  expecting  to  be  called  up  with  him.  He 
smiled  as  our  eyes  met;  and  I  thought  with  a  rush  of  ten- 
derness how  lightly  I  could  have  dared  the  worst  had  all 
my  associates  been  like  him.  But  repining  came  too  late, 
and  in  a  moment  Penruddocke  surprised  me  by  calling  out 
"Crewdson  and  Carey!" 


214  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

So  Master  Bertie  was  not  to  be  my  companion !  I 
learned  afterward  that  men  who  were  strangers  to  one 
another  were  purposely  associated,  the  theory  being  that 
each  should  keep  an  eye  upon  his  oath-fellow.  I  went  for- 
ward to  the  end  of  the  table,  and  took  the  book. 

There  was  a  slight  pause. 

"Crewdson!"  called  Penruddocke  sharply;  "did  you 
not  hear,  man?" 

There  was  a  little  stir  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  and 
he  came  forward,  moving  slowly  and  reluctantly.  I  saw  that 
he  was  the  man  whom  Penruddocke  had  called  back  when 
we  entered,  a  man  of  great  height,  though  slender,  and 
closely  cloaked.  A  drooping  gray  mustache  covered  his 
mouth,  and  that  was  almost  all  I  made  out  before  Sir 
Thomas,  with  some  sharpness,  bade  him  uncover.  He  did 
so  with  an  abrupt  gesture,  and  reaching  out  his  hand 
grasped  the  other  end  of  the  book  as  though  he  would  take 
it  from  me.  His  manner  was  so  strange  that  I  looked  hard 
at  him,  and  he,  jerking  up  his  head  with  a  gesture  of  defi- 
ance, looked  at  me  too,  his  face  very  pale. 

I  heard  Penruddocke's  voice  droning  the  words  of  the 
oath,  but  I  paid  no  attention  to  them — I  was  busied  with 
something  else.  Where  had  I  seen  the  sinister  gleam  in 
those  eyes  before,  and  that  forehead  high  and  narrow,  and 
those  lean,  swarthy  cheeks?  Where  had  I  before  confronted 
that  very  face  which  now  glared  into  mine  across  the  book? 
Its  look  was  bold  and  defiant,  but  low  down  in  the  cheek 
I  saw  a  little  pulse  beating  furiously,  a  pulse  which  told  of 
anxiety,  and  the  jaws,  half  veiled  by  the  ragged  mustache, 
were  set  in  an  iron  grip.  Where?  Ha!  I  knew.  I  dropped 
my  end  of  the  book  and  stepped  back. 

"Look  to  the  door!"  I  cried,  my  voice  sounding  harsh 
and  strange  in  my  own  ears.  "Let  no  one  leave!  I 
denounce  that  man!"  And  raising  my  hand  I  pointed 
pitilessly  at  my  oath-fellow.  "I  denounce  him — he  is  a 
spy  and  traitor!" 

"I  a  spy?"  the  man  shouted  fiercely — with  the  fierceness 
of  despair. 

"Ay,  you!  you!  Clarence,  or  Crewdson,  or  whatever 
you  call  yourself,  I  denounce  you!  My  time  has  come!" 


HE   IS   A    SPY   AND   A   TRAITOR 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

FERDINAND      CLUDDE. 

I^HE  bitterness  of  that  hour  long  past,  when  he  had  left 
me  for  death,  when  he  had  played  with  the  human 
longing  for  life,  and  striven  without  a  thought  of  pity  to 
corrupt  me  by  hopes  and  fears  the  most  awful  that  mortals 
know,  was  in  my  voice  as  I  spoke.  I  rejoiced  that  ven- 
geance had  come  upon  him  at  last,  and  that  I  was  its  instru- 
ment. I  saw  the  pallor  of  a  great  fear  creep  into  his  dark 
cheek,  and  read  in  his  eyes  the  vicious  passion  of  a  wild 
beast  trapped,  and  felt  no  pity.  "Master  Clarence!"  I 
said,  and  laughed — laughed  mockingly.  "You  do  not  look 
pleased  to  see  your  friends.  Or  perhaps  you  do  not  re- 
member me.  Stand  forward,  Master  Bertie!  Maybe  he 
will  recognize  you." 

But  though  Master  Bertie  came  forward  and  stood  by  my 
side  gazing  at  him,  the  villain's  eyes  did  not  for  an  instant 
shift  from  mine.  "It  is  the  man!"  my  companion  said 
after  a  solemn  pause — for  the  other,  breathing  fast,  made 
no  answer.  "He  was  a  spy  in  the  pay  of  Bishop  Gardiner, 
when  I  knew  him.  At  the  Bishop's  death  I  heard  that  he 
passed  into  the  service  of  the  Spanish  Ambassador,  the 
Count  de  Feria.  He  called  himself  at  that  time  Clarence. 
I  recognize  him." 

The  quiet  words  had  their  effect.  From  full  one-half  of 
the  savage  crew  round  us  a  fierce  murmur  rose  more  terrible 
than  any  loud  outcry.  Yet  this  seemed  a  relief  to  the 
doomed  man ;  he  forced  himself  to  look  away  from  me  and 
to  confront  the  dark  ring  of  menacing  faces  which  hemmed 
him  in.  The  moment  he  did  so  he  appeared  to  find  cour- 
age and  words.  "They  take  me  for  another  man!"  he 
cried  in  hoarse  accents.  "I  know  nothing  of  them!"  and 
he  added  a  fearful  oath.  "He  knows  me.  Ask  him  !" 

He  pointed  to  Walter  Kingston,  who  was  sitting  moodily 


2l6  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

on  a  tram  outside  the  ring,  and  who  alone  had  not  risen 
under  the  excitement  of  my  challenge.  On  being  thus  ap- 
pealed to  he  looked  up  suddenly.  "If  I  am  to  choose 
between  you,"  he  said  bitterly,  "and  say  which  is  the  true 
man,  I  know  which  I  shall  pick." 

"Which?"  Clarence  murmured.  "Which?"  This  time 
his  tone  was  different.  In  his  voice  was  the  ring  of  hope. 

"I  should  give  my  vote  for  you,"  Kingston  replied,  look- 
ing contemptuously  at  him.  "I  know  something  about 
you,  but  of  the  other  gentleman  I  know  nothing!" 

"And  not  much  of  the  person  you  call  Crewdson,"  I 
retorted  fiercely,  "since  you  do  not  know  his  real  name." 

"I  know  this  much,"  the  young  man  answered,  tapping 
his  boot  with  his  scabbard  with  studied  carelessness,  "that 
he  lent  me  some  money,  and  seemed  a  good  fellow  and  one 
that  hated  a  mass  priest.  That  is  enough  for  me.  As  for 
his  name,  it  is  his  fancy  perhaps.  You  call  yourself  Carey. 
Well,  I  know  a  good  many  Careys,  but  I  do  not  know  you, 
nor  ever  heard  of  you ! " 

I  swung  round  on  him  with  a  hot  cheek.  But  the  chal- 
lenge which  was  upon  my  tongue  was  anticipated  by  Master 
Bertie,  who  drew  me  forcibly  back.  "Leave  this  to  me, 
Francis,"  he  said,  "and  do  you  watch  that  man.  Master 
Kingston  and  gentlemen,"  he  continued,  turning  again  to 
them,  and  drawing  himself  to  his  full  height  as  he  addressed 
them,  "listen,  if  you  please!  You  know  me,  if  you  do  not 
know  my  friend.  The  honor  of  Richard  Bertie  has  never 
been  challenged  until  to-night,  nor  ever  will  be  with  impu- 
nity. Leave  my  friend  out  of  the  question  and  put  me  in 
it.  I,  Richard  Bertie,  say  that  that  man  is  a  paid  spy  and 
informer,  come  here  in  quest  of  blood-money!  And  he, 
Crewdson,  a  nameless  man,  says  that  I  lie.  Choose  between 
us.  Or  look  at  him  and  judge!  Look!" 

He  was  right  to  bid  them  look.  As  the  savage  murmur 
rose  again  and  took  from  the  wretched  man  his  last  hope,  as 
the  ugliness  of  despair  and  wicked,  impotent  passion  dis- 
torted his  face,  he  was  indeed  the  most  deadly  witness 
against  himself. 

The  lights  which  shone  on  treacherous  weapons  half  hid- 
den, or  on  the  glittering  eyes  of  cruel  men  whose  blood  was 
roused,  fell  on  nothing  so  dangerous  as  the  livid,  despairing 
face  which,  unmasked  and  e>ed  by  all  with  aversion,  still 


FERDINAND   CLUDDE.  217 

defied  us.  Traitor  and  spy  as  he  was,  he  had  the  merit  of 
courage  at  least ;  he  would  die  game.  And  even  as  I,  with 
a  first  feeling  of  pity  for  him,  discerned  this,  his  sword  was 
out,  and  with  a  curse  he  lunged  at  me. 

Penruddocke  saved  me  by  a  buffet  which  sent  me  reeling 
against  the  wall,  so  that  the  villain's  thrust  was  spent  on 
air.  Before  he  could  repeat  it,  four  or  five  men  flung  them- 
selves upon  him  from  behind.  For  a  moment  there  was  a 
great  uproar,  while  the  group  surrounding  him  swayed  to 
and  fro  as  he  dragged  his  captors  up  and  down  with  a 
strength  I  should  not  have  expected.  But  the  end  was 
certain,  and  we  stood  looking  on  quietly.  In  a  minute  or 
two  they  had  him  down,  and  disarming  him,  bound  his 
hands. 

For  me  he  seemed  to  have  a  special  hatred.  "Curse 
you!"  he  panted,  glaring  at  me  as  he  lay  helpless.  "You 
have  been  my  evil  angel!  From  the  first  day  I  saw  you, 
you  have  thwarted  me  in  every  plan,  and  now  you  have 
brought  me  to  this!" 

"Not  I,  but  yourself,"  I  answered. 

"My  curse  upon  you!"  he  cried  again,  the  rage  and  hate 
in  his  face  so  terrible  that  I  turned  away  shuddering  and 
sick  at  heart.  "If  I  could  have  killed  you,"  he  cried,  "I 
would  have  died  contented." 

"Enough!"  interposed  Penruddocke  briskly.  "It  is 
well  for  us  that  Master  Bertie  and  his  friend  came  here 
to-night.  Heaven  grant  it  be  not  too  late!  We  do  not 
need,"  he  added,  looking  round,  "any  more  evidence,  I 
think?" 

The  dissent  was  loud,  and,  save  for  Kingston,  who  still 
sat  sulking  apart,  unanimous. 

"Death?"  said  the  Cornishman  quietly. 

No  one  spoke,  but  each  man  gave  a  brief  stern  nod. 

"Very  well, "  the  leader  continued;  "then  I  propose " 

"One  moment,"  said  Master  Bertie,  interrupting  him. 
"A  word  with  you  apart,  with  our  friends'  permission. 
You  can  repeat  it  to  them  afterward." 

He  drew  Sir  Thomas  aside,  and  they  retired  into  the 
corner  by  the  door,  where  they  stood  talking  in  whispers. 
I  had  small  reason  to  feel  sympathy  for  the  man  who  lay 
there  tied  and  doomed  to  die  like  a  calf.  Yet  even  I  shud- 
dered— yes,  and  some  of  the  hardened  men  round  me  shud- 


2l8  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

dered  also  at  the  awful  expression  in  his  eyes  as,  without 
moving  his  head,  he  followed  the  motions  of  the  two  by  the 
door.  Some  faint  hope  springing  into  being  wrung  his  soul, 
and  brought  the  perspiration  in  great  drops  to  his  forehead. 
I  turned  away,  thinking  gravely  of  the  early  morning  three 
years  ago  when  he  had  tortured  me  by  the  very  same  hopes 
and  fears  which  now  racked  his  own  spirit. 

Penruddocke  came  back,   Master  Bertie  following  him. 

"It  must  not  be  done  to-night,"  he  announced  quietly, 
with  a  nod  which  meant  that  he  would  explain  the  reason 
afterward.  "We  will  meet  again  to-morrow  at  four  in  the 
afternoon  instead  of  at  eight  in  the  evening.  Until  then 
two  must  remain  on  guard  with  him.  It  is  right  he  should 
have  some  time  to  repent,  and  he  shall  have  it." 

This  did  not  at  once  find  favor. 

"Why  not  run  him  through  now?"  said  one  bluntly. 
"And  meet  to-morrow  at  some  place  unknown  to  him?  If 
we  come  here  again  we  shall,  likely  enough,  walk  straight 
into  the  trap." 

"Well,  have  it  that  way,  if  you  please,"  answered  Sir 
Thomas,  shrugging  his  shoulders.  "But  do  not  blame  me 
afterward  if  you  find  we  have  let  slip  a  golden  opportunity. 
Be  fools  if  you  like.  I  dare  say  it  will  not  make  much  dif- 
ference in  the  end!" 

He  spoke  at  random,  but  he  knew  how  to  deal  with  his 
crew,  it  seemed,  for  on  this  those  who  had  objected  assented 
reluctantly  to  the  course  he  proposed.  "Barnes  and  Wal- 
ters are  here  in  hiding,  so  they  had  better  be  the  two  to 
guard  him,"  he  continued.  "There  is  no  fear  that  they 
will  be  inclined  to  let  him  go!"  I  looked  at  the  men  whom 
the  glances  of  their  fellows  singled  out,  and  found  them  to 
belong  to  the  little  knot  of  fanatics  I  had  before  remarked : 
dark,  stern  men,  worth,  if  the  matter  ever  came  to  fighting, 
all  the  rest  of  the  band  put  together. 

"At  four,  to-morrow,  then,  we  meet,"  Sir  Thomas  con- 
cluded lightly.  "Then  we  will  deal  with  him,  never  fear! 
Now  it  is  near  midnight,  and  we  must  be  going.  But  not 
all  together,  or  we  shall  attract  attention." 

Half  an  hour  later  Master  Bertie  and  I  rode  softly  out  of 
the  courtyard  and  turned  our  faces  toward  the  city.  The 
night  wind  came  sweeping  across  the  valley  of  the  Thames, 


FERDINAND   CLUDDE.  219 

and  met  us  full  in  the  face  as  we  reached  the  brow  of  the 
hill.  It  seemed  laden  with  melancholy  whispers.  The 
wretched  enterprise,  ill-conceived,  ill-ordered,  and  in  its 
very  nature  desperate,  to  which  we  were  in  honor  committed, 
would  have  accounted  of  itself  for  any  degree  of  forebod- 
ing. But  the  scene  through  which  we  had  just  passed,  and 
on  my  part  the  knowledge  that  I  had  given  up  a  fellow-being 
to  death,  had  their  depressing  influences.  For  some  dis- 
tance we  rode  in  silence,  which  I  was  the  first  to  break. 

"Why  did  you  put  off  his  punishment?"  I  asked. 

"Because  I  think  he  will  give  us  information  in  the  inter- 
val," Bertie  answered  briefly.  "Information  which  may 
help  us.  A  spy  is  generally  ready  to  betray  his  own  side 
upon  occasion." 

"And  you  will  spare  him  if  he  does?"  I  asked.  It 
seemed  to  me  neither  justice  nor  mercy. 

"No,"  he  said,  "there  is  no  fear  of  that.  Those  who  go 
with  ropes  round  their  necks  know  no  mercy.  But  drown- 
ing men  will  catch  at  straws ;  and  ten  to  one  he  will  babble!" 

I  shivered.      "It  is  a  bad  business,"  I  said. 

He  thought  I  referred  to  the  conspiracy,  and  he  inveighed 
bitterly  against  it,  reproaching  himself  for  bringing  me  into 
it,  and  for  his  folly  in  believing  the  rosy  accounts  of  men 
who  had  all  to  win,  and  nothing  save  their  worthless  lives  to 
lose.  "There  is  only  one  thing  gained, "  he  said.  "We  are 
likely  to  pay  dearly  for  that,  so  we  may  think  the  more  of 
it.  We  have  been  the  means  of  punishing  a  villain."  j 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "that  is  true.  It  was  a  strange  meeting 
and  a  strange  recognition.  Strangest  of  all  that  I  should 
be  called  up  to  swear  with  him." 

"Not  strange,"  Master  Bertie  answered  gravely.  "I 
would  rather  call  it  providential.  Let  us  think  of  that,  and 
be  of  better  courage,  friend.  We  have  been  used;  we  shall 
not  be  cast  away  before  our  time." 

I  looked  back.  For  some  minutes  I  had  thought  I  heard 
behind  us  a  light  footstep,  more  like  the  pattering  of  a 
dog  than  anything  else.  I  could  see  nothing,  but  that  was 
not  wonderful,  for  the  moon  was  young  and  the  sky  over- 
cast. "Do  you  hear  some  one  following  us?"  I  said. 

Master  Bertie  drew  rein  suddenly,  and  turning  in  the 
saddle  we  listened.  For  a  second  I  thought  I  still  heard  the 
sound.  The  next  it  ceased,  and  only  the  wind  toying  with 


220  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

the  November  leaves  and  sighing  away  in  the  distance,  came 
to  our  ears.  "No,  "he  said,  "I  think  it  must  have  been  your 
fancy.  I  hear  nothing. " 

But  when  we  rode  on  the  sound  began  again,  though  at 
first  more  faintly,  as  if  our  follower  had  learned  prudence 
and  fallen  farther  behind.  "Do  not  stop,  but  listen!"  I 
said  softly.  "Cannot  you  hear  the  pattering  of  a  naked 
foot  now?" 

"I  hear  something,"  he  answered.  "I  am  afraid  you  are 
right,  and  that  we  are  followed." 

"What  is  to  be  done?"  I  said,  my  thoughts  busy. 

"There  is  Caen  wood  in  front,"  he  answered,  "with  a  little 
open  ground  on  this  side  of  it.  We  will  ride  under  the  trees 
and  then  stop  suddenly.  Perhaps  we  shall  be  able  to  distin^ 
guish  him  as  he  crosses  the  open  behind  us."  We  made  the 
experiment;  but  as  if  our  follower  had  divined  the  plan,  his 
footstep  ceased  to  sound  before  we  had  stopped  our  horses. 
He  had  fallen  farther  behind.  "We  might  ride  quickly 
back,"  I  suggested,  "and  surprise  him." 

"It  would  be  useless,"  Bertie  answered.  "There  is  too 
much  cover  close  to  the  road.  Let  us  rather  trot  on  and 
outstrip  him." 

We  did  trot  on;  and  what  with  the  tramp  of  our  horses  as 
they  swung  along  the  road,  and  the  sharp  passage  of  the 
wind  by  our  ears,  we  heard  no  more  of  the  footstep  behind. 
But  when  we  presently  pulled  up  to  breathe  our  horses — 
or  rather  within  a  few  minutes  of  our  doing  so — there  it  was 
behind  us,  nearer  and  louder  than  before.  I  shivered  as  I 
listened;  and  presently,  acting  on  a  sudden  impulse,  I 
wheeled  my  horse  round  and  spurred  him  back  a  dozen 
paces  along  the  road. 

I  pulled  up. 

There  was  a  movement  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees  on  my 
right,  and  I  leaned  forward,  peering  in  that  direction. 
Gradually,  I  made  out  the  lines  of  a  figure  standing  still  as 
though  gazing  at  me;  a  strange,  distorted  figure,  crooked, 
short,  and  in  some  way,  though  no  lineament  of  the  face 
was  visible,  expressive  of  a  strange  and  weird  malevolence. 
It  was  the  witch!  The  witch  whom  I  had  seen  in  the 
kitchen  at  the  Gatehouse.  How,  then,  had  she  come  hither? 
How  had  she,  old,  lame,  decrepit,  kept  up  with  us? 

I  trembled  as  she  raised  her  hand,  and,  standing  other- 


FERDINAND   CLUDDE.  221 

wise  motionless,  pointed  at  me  out  of  the  gloom.  The 
horse  under  me  was  trembling  too,  trembling  violently,  with 
its  ears  laid  back,  and,  as  she  moved,  its  terror  increased, 
it  plunged  wildly.  I  had  to  give  for  a  moment  all  my  atten- 
tion to  it,  and  though  I  tried,  in  mere  revolt  against  the 
fear  which  I  felt  was  overcoming  me,  to  urge  it  nearer,  my 
efforts  were  vain.  After  nearly  unseating  me,  the  beast 
whirled  round  and,  getting  the  better  of  me,  galloped  down 
the  road  toward  London. 

"What  is  it?"  cried  Master  Bertie,  as  I  came  speedily  up 
with  him ;  he  had  ridden  slowly  on.  "What  is  the  matter?" 

"Something  in  the  hedge  startled  it,"  I  explained,  trying 
to  soothe  the  horse.  "I  could  not  clearly  see  what  it  was." 

"A  rabbit,  I  dare  say,"  he  remarked,  deceived  by  my 
manner. 

"Perhaps  it  was,"  I  answered.  Some  impulse,  not  unnat- 
ural, led  me  to  say  nothing  about  what  I  had  seen.  I  was 
not  quite  sure  that  my  eyes  had  not  deceived  me.  I  feared 
his  ridicule,  too,  though  he  was  not  very  prone  to  ridicule. 
And  above  all  I  shrank  from  explaining  the  medley  of  super- 
stitious fear,  distrust,  and  abhorrence  in  which  I  held  the 
creature  who  had  shown  so  strange  a  knowledge  of  my  life. 

We  were  already  near  Holborn,  and  reaching  without 
further  adventure  a  modest  inn  near  the  Bars,  we  retired  to 
a  room  we  had  engaged,  and  lay  down  with  none  of  the 
gallant  hopes  which  had  last  night  formed  the  subject  of  our 
talk.  Yet  we  slept  well,  for  depression  goes  better  with 
sleep  than  does  the  tumult  of  anticipation ;  and  I  was  up 
early,  and  down  in  the  yard  looking  to  the  horses  before 
London  was  well  awake.  As  I  entered  the  stable  a  man 
lying  curled  up  in  the  straw  rolled  lazily  over  and,  shading 
his  eyes,  glanced  up.  Apparently  he  recognized  me,  for  he 
got  slowly  to  his  feet.  "Morning!"  he  said  gruffly. 

I  stood  staring  at  him,  wondering  if  I  had  made  a  mis- 
take. 

"What  are  you  doing  here,  my  man?"  I  said  sharply, 
when  I  had  made  certain  I  knew  him,  and  that  he  was  really 
the  surly  ostler  from  the  Gatehouse  tavern  at  Highgate. 
"Why  did  you  come  here?  Why  have  you  followed  us?" 

"Come  about  your  business,"  he  answered.  "To  give 
you  that." 

I  took  the  note  he  held  out  to  me.  "From  whom?"  I 
said.  "Who  sent  it  by  you?" 


222  THE   STORY  OF  FRAXCIS  CLUDDE. 

"Cannot  tell,"  he  replied,  shaking  his  head. 

"Cannot,  or  will  not?"  I  retorted. 

"Both,"  he  said  doggedly.  "But  there,  if  you  want  to 
know  what  sort  of  a  kernel  is  in  a  nut,  you  don't  shake  the 
tree,  master — you  crack  the  nut." 

I  looked  at  the  note  he  had  given  me.  It  was  but  a  slip 
of  paper  folded  thrice.  The  sender  had  not  addressed,  or 
sealed,  or  fastened  it  in  anyway;  had  taken  no  care  either 
to  insure  its  reaching  its  destination  or  to  prevent  prying  eyes 
seeing  the  contents.  If  one  of  our  associates  had  sent  it, 
he  had  been  guilty  of  the  grossest  carelessness.  "You  are 
sure  it  is  for  me?"  I  said. 

"As  sure  as  mortal  can  be,"  he  answered.  "Only  that  it 
was  given  me  for  a  man,  and  not  a  mouse!  You  are  not 
afraid,  master?" 

I  was  not;  but  he  edged  away  -as  he  spoke,  and  looked 
with  so  much  alarm  at  the  scrap  of  paper  that  it  was  abun- 
dantly clear  he  was  very  much  afraid  himself,  even  while  he 
derided  me.  I  saw  that  if  I  had  offered  to  return  the  note  he 
would  have  backed  out  of  the  stable  and  gone  off  there  and 
then  as  fast  as  his  lame  foot  would  let  him.  This  puzzled 
me.  However,  I  read  the  note.  There  was  nothing  in  it 
to  frighten  me.  Yet,  as  I  read,  the  color  came  into  my 
face,  for  it  contained  one  name  to  which  I  had  long  been  a 
stranger. 

"To  Francis  Cludde,"  it  ran.  "If  you  would  not  do  a 
thing  of  which  you  will  miserably  repent  all  your  life,  nnd 
which  will  stain  you  in  the  eyes  of  all  Christian  men,  meet 
me  two  hours  before  noon  at  the  cross  street  by  St.  Botolpli's, 
where  you  first  saw  Mistress  Bertram.  And  tell  no  one. 
Fail  not  to  come.  In  Heaven's  name,  fail  not!" 

The  note  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  conspiracy,  then,  on 
the  face  of  it ;  mysterious  as  it  was,  and  mysteriously  as  it 
came.  "Look  here!"  I  said  to  the  man.  "Tell  me  who 
sent  it,  and  I  will  give  you  a  crown." 

"I  would  not  tell  you,"  he  answered  stubbornly,  "if  you 
could  make  me  King  of  England!  No,  nor  King  of  Spain 
too!  You  might  rack  me  and  you  would  not  get  it  from 
me!" 

His  one  eye  glowed  with  so  obstinate  a  resolve  that  I  gave 
up  the  attempt  to  persuade  him,  and  turned  to  examine  the 
message  itself.  But  here  I  fared  no  better.  I  did  not 
know  the  handwriting,  and  there  was  no  peculiaritv  in  the 


FERDINAND   CLUDDE.  223 

paper.  I  was  no  wiser  than  before.  '"Are  you  to  take 
back  any  answer?"  I  said. 

"No,"  he  replied,  "the  saints  be  thanked  for  the  same! 
But  you  will  bear  me  witness,"  he  went  on  anxiously,  "that 
I  gave  you  the  letter.  You  will  not  forget  that,  or  say  that 
you  have  not  had  it?  But  there!"  he  added  to  himself  as  he 
turned  away,  speaking  in  a  low  voice,  so  that  I  barely  caught 
the  sense  of  the  words,  "what  is  the  use?  she  will  know!" 

She  will  know!  It  had  something  to  do  with  a  woman 
then,  even  if  a  woman  were  not  the  writer.  I  went  in  to 
breakfast  in  two  minds  about  going.  I  longed  to  tell  Mas- 
ter Bertie  and  take  his  advice,  though  the  unknown  had 
enjoined  me  not  to  do  so.  But  for  the  time  I  refrained, 
and  explaining  my  absence  of  mind  as  well  as  I  could,  I 
presently  stole  away  on  some  excuse  or  other,  and  started  in 
good  time,  and  on  foot,  into  the  city.  I  reached  the  ren- 
dezvous a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  the  time  named,  and 
strolling  between  the  church  and  the  baker's  shop,  tried  to 
look  as  much  like  a  chance  passer-by  as  I  could,  keeping 
the  while  a  wary  lookout  for  any  one  who  might  turn  out  to 
be  my  correspondent. 

The  morning  was  cold  and  gray.  A  drizzling  rain  was 
falling.  The  passers  were  few,  and  the  appearance  of  the 
streets  dirty  and,  with  littered  kennels,  was  dreary  indeed. 
I  found  it  hard  at  once  to  keep  myself  warm  and  to  avoid 
observation  as  I  hung  about.  Ten  o'clock  had  rung  from 
more  than  one  steeple,  and  I  was  beginning  to  think  myself 
a  fool  for  my  pains,  when  a  woman  of  middle  height,  slen- 
der and  young  in  figure,  but  wearing  a  shabby  brown  cloak, 
and  with  her  head  muffled  in  a  hood,  as  though  she  had  the 
toothache  or  dreaded  the  weather  more  than  ordinary, 
turned  the  corner  of  the  belfry  and  made  straight  toward 
me.  She  drew  near,  and  seemed  about  to  pass  me  without 
notice.  But  when  abreast  of  me  she  glanced  up  suddenly, 
her  eyes  the  only  features  I  could  see. 

"Follow  me  to  the  church!"  she  murmured  gently. 
And  she  swept  on  to  the  porch. 

I  obeyed  reluctantly;  very  reluctantly,  my  feet  seeming 
like  lead.  For  I  knew  who  she  was.  Though  I  had  only 
seen  her  eyes,  I  had  recognized  them,  and  guessed  already 
what  her  business  with  me  was.  She  led  the  way  resolutely 


224  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

to  a  quiet  corner.  The  church  was  empty  and  still,  with 
only  the  scent  of  incense  in  the  air  to  tell  of  a  recent 
service.  It  was  no  surprise  to  me  when  she  turned  abruptly, 
and,  removing  her  hood,  looked  me  in  the  face. 

"What  have  you  done  with  him?"  she  panted,  laying  her 
hand  on  my  arm.  "Speak!  Tell  me  what  you  have  done 
with  him?" 

The  question,  the  very  question,  I  had  foreseen!  Yet  I 
tried  to  fence  with  her.  I  said,  "With  whom?" 

"With  whom?"  she  repeated  bitterly.  "You  know  me! 
I  am  not  so  changed  in  three  years  that  you  do  not  recog- 
nize me?" 

"No;  I  know  you,"  I  said. 

There  was  a  hectic  flush  on  her  cheeks,  and  it  seemed  to 
me  that  the  dark  hair  was  thinner  on  her  thin  temples  than 
when  I  had  seen  her  last.  But  the  eyes  were  the  same. 

"Then  why  ask  with  whom?"  she  cried  passionately. 
"What  have  you  done  with  the  man  you  called  Clarence?" 

"Done  with  him?"  I  said  feebly. 

"Ay,  done  with  him?  Come,  speak  and  tell  me!"  she 
repeated  in  fierce  accents,  her  hand  clutching  my  wrist,  her 
eyes  probing  my  face  with  merciless  glances.  "Have  you 
killed  him?  Tell  me!" 

"Killed  him,  Mistress  Anne?"  I  said  sullenly.  "No,  I 
have  not  killed  him." 

"He  is  alive?"  she  cried. 

"For  all  I  know,  he  is  alive." 

She  glared  at  me  for  some  seconds  to  assure  herself  that 
I  was  telling  the  truth.  Then  she  heaved  a  great  sigh ;  her 
hands  fell  from  my  wrists,  the  color  faded  out  of  her  face, 
and  she  lowered  her  eyes.  I  glanced  round  with  a  momen- 
tary idea  of  escape — I  so  shrank  from  that  which  was  to 
come.  But  before  I  had  well  entertained  the  notion  she 
looked  up,  her  face  grown  calm. 

"Then  what  have  you  done  with  him?"  she  asked. 

"I  have  done  nothing  with  him,"  I  answered. 

She  laughed;  a  mirthless  laugh.  "Bah!"  she  said,  "do 
not  tell  me  lies!  That  is  your  honor,  I  suppose — your 
honor  to  your  friends  down  in  the  cellar  there!  Do  you 
think  that  I  do  not  know  all  about  them?  Shall  I  give  you 
the  list?  He  is  a  very  dangerous  conspirator,  is  Sir  Thomas 


FERDINAND  CLUDDE.  225 

Penruddocke,  is  he  not?  And  that  scented  dandy  Master 
Kingston !  Or  Master  Crewdson — tell  me  of  him !  Tell 
me  of  him,  I  say!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  sudden  return 
from  irony  to  a  fierce  eagerness,  a  breathless  impatience. 
"Why  did  he  not  come  up  last  night?  What  have  you 
done  with  him?" 

I  shook  my  head,  sick  and  trembling.  How  could  I  tell 
her? 

"I  see,"  she  said.  "You  will  not  tell  me.  But  you 
swear  he  is  yet  alive,  Master  Cludde?  Good.  Then  you 
are  holding  him  for  a  hostage?  Is  that  it?"  with  a  piercing 
glance  at  my  face.  "Or,  you  have  condemned  him,  but  for 
some  reason  the  sentence  has  not  been  executed!"  She 
drew  a  long,  deep  breath,  for  I  fear  my  face  betrayed  me. 
"That  is  it,  is  it?  Then  there  is  still  time." 

She  turned  from  me  and  looked  toward  the  end  of  the 
aisle,  where  a  dull  red  lamp  hanging  before  the  altar  glowed 
feebly  in  the  warm  scented  air.  She  seemed  so  to  turn  and 
so  to  look  in  thankfulness,  as  if  the  news  she  had  learned 
were  good  instead  of  what  it  was.  "What  is  the  hour 
fixed?"  she  asked  suddenly. 

I  shook  my  head. 

"You  will  not  tell  me?  Well,  it  matters  not,"  she 
answered  briskly.  "He  must  be  saved.  Do  you  hear? 
He  must  be  saved,  Master  Cludde.  That  is  your  business." 

I  shook  my  head. 

"You  think  it  is  not?"  she  said.  "Well,  I  can  show  you 
it  is!  Listen!" 

She  raised  herself  on  a  step  of  the  font,  and  looked  me 
harshly  in  the  face.  "If  he  be  not  given  up  to  me  safe  and 
sound  by  sunset  this  evening,  I  will  betray  you  all!  All! 
I  have  the  list  here,"  she  muttered  sternly,  touching  her 
bosom.  "You,  Master  Bertie,  Penruddocke,  Fleming, 
Barnes — all.  All,  do  you  hear?  Give  him  up  or  you  shall 
hang!" 

"You  would  not  do  it!"  I  cried  aghast,  peering  into  her 
burning  eyes. 

"Would  not  do  it?  Fool!"  she  hissed.  "If  all  the 
world  but  he  had  one  head,  I  would  cut  it  off  to  save  his! 
He  is  my  husband!  Do  you  hear?  He  is  my  husband — 
my  all!  Do  you  think  I  have  given  up  everything,  friends 


226  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

and  honor  and  safety,  for  him,  to  lose  him  now?  No! 
You  say  I  would  not  do  it?  Do  you  know  what  I  have 
done?  You  have  a  scar  there." 

She  touched  me  lightly  on  the  breast.  "I  did  it,"  she 
said. 

"You?"     I  muttered. 

"Yes,  I,  you  blind  fool!  I  did  it,"  she  answered. 
"You  escaped  then,  and  I  was  glad  of  it,  since  the  wound 
answered  my  purpose.  But  you  will  not  escape  again. 
The  cord  is  surer." 

Something  in  her  last  words  crossed  my  memory  and 
enlightened  me. 

"You  were  the  woman  I  saw  last  night,"  I  said.  "You 
followed  us  from  High  gate." 

"What  matter!  What  matter!"  she  exclaimed  impa- 
tiently. "Better  be  footsore  than  heartsore.  Will  you  do 
now  what  I  want?  Will  you  answer  for  his  life?" 

"I  can  do  nothing  without  the  others,"  I  said. 

"But  the  others  know  nothing,"  she  answered.  "They 
do  not  know  their  own  danger.  Where  will  you  find 
them?" 

"I  shall  find  them,"  I  replied  resolutely.  "And  in  any 
case  I  must  consult  Master  Bertie.  Will  you  come  and  see 
him?" 

"And  be  locked  up  too?"  she  said  sternly,  and  in  a  dif- 
ferent tone.  "No.  It  is  you  must  do  this,  and  you  must 
answer  for  it,  Francis  Cludde.  You,  and  no  one  else." 

"I  can  do  nothing  by  myself,"  I  repeated. 

"Ay,  but  you  can — you  must!"  she  retorted,  "or 
Heaven's  curse  will  be  upon  you !  You  think  me  mad  to 
say  that.  Listen!  Listen,  fool!  The  man  whom  you 
have  condemned,  whom  you  have  left  to  die,  is  not  only  my 
husband,  wedded  to  me  these  three  years,  but  your  father— 
your  father,  Ferdinand  Cludde!" 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE     COMING     QUEEN. 

I  STOOD  glaring  at  her. 
"You  were  a  blind  bat  or  you  would  have  found  it  out 
for  yourself,"  she  continued  scornfully.      "A  babe  would 
have  guessed  it,  knowing  as  much  of  your  father  as  you 
did." 

"Does  he  know  himself?"  I  muttered  hoarsely,  looking 
anywhere  but  at  her  now.  The  shock  had  left  me  dull  and 
confused.  I  did  not  doubt  her  word,  rather  I  wondered 
with  her  that  I  had  not  found  this  out  for  myself.  But  the 
possibility  of  meeting  my  father  in  that  wide  world  into 
which  I  had  plunged  to  escape  from  the  knowledge  of  his 
existence,  had  never  occurred  to  me.  Had  I  thought  of  it, 
it  would  have  seemed  too  unlikely ;  and  though  I  might 
have  seen  in  Gardiner  a  link  between  us,  and  so  have  iden- 
tified him,  the  greatness  of  the  Chancellor's  transactions, 
and  certain  things  about  Clarence  which  had  seemed,  or 
would  have  seemed,  had  I  ever  taken  the  point  into  consid- 
eration, at  variance  with  my  ideas  of  my  father,  had  pre- 
vented me  getting  upon  the  track. 

"Does  he  know  that  you  are  his  son,  do  you  mean?"  she 
said.  "No,  he  does  not." 

"You  have  not  told  him?" 

"No,"  she  answered  with  a  slight  shiver. 

I  understood.  I  comprehended  that  even  to  her  the 
eagerness  with  which,  being  father  and  son,  we  had  sought 
one  another's  lives  during  those  days  on  the  Rhine,  had 
seemed  so  dreadful  that  she  had  concealed  the  truth  from 
him. 

"When  did  you  learn  it?"   I  asked,  trembling  too. 
'I  knew  his  right  name  before  I  ever  saw  you,"   she 
answered.      "Yours  I  learned  on  the  day  I  left  you  at  San- 
ton."     Looking  back  I  remembered  the   strange  horror, 


228  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

then  inexplicable,  which  she  had  betrayed  ;  and  I  under- 
stood it.  So  it  was  that  knowledge  which  had  driven  her 
from  us  !  "  What  will  you  do  now  ? "  she  said.  "  You  will 
save  him  ?  You  must  save  him  !  He  is  your  father." 

Save  him?  I  shuddered  at  the  thought  that  I  had 
destroyed  him!  that  I,  his  son,  had  denounced  him!  Save 
him!  The  perspiration  sprang  out  in  beads  on  my  forehead. 
If  I  could  not  save  him  I  should  live  pitied  by  my  friends 
and  loathed  by  my  enemies! 

"If  it  be  possible,"  I  muttered,  "I  will  save  him." 

"You  swear  it?"  she  cried.  Before  I  could  answer  she 
seized  my  arm  and  dragged  me  up  the  dim  aisle  until  we 
stood  together  before  the  Figure  and  the  Cross.  The 
chimes  above  us  rang  eleven.  A  shaft  of  cold  sunshine 
pierced  a  dusty  window,  and,  full  of  dancing  motes,  shot 
athwart  the  pillars. 

"Swear!"  she  repeated  with  trembling  eagerness,  turning 
her  eyes  on  mine,  and  raising  her  hand  solemnly  toward  the 
Figure.  "Swear  by  the  Cross!" 

"I  swear,"  I  said. 

She  dropped  her  hand.  Her  form  seemed  to  shrink  and 
grow  less.  Making  a  sign  to  me  to  go,  she  fell  on  her  knees 
on  the  step,  and  drew  her  hood  over  her  face.  I  walked 
away  on  tiptoe  down  the  aisle,  but  glancing  back  from  the 
door  of  the  church  I  saw  the  small,  solitary  figure  still 
kneeling  in  prayer.  The  sunshine  had  died  away.  The 
dusty  window  was  colorless.  Only  the  red  lamp  glowed 
dully  above  her  head.  I  seemed  to  see  what  the  end 
would  be.  Then  I  pushed  aside  the  curtain,  and  slipped 
out  into  the  keen  air.  It  was  hers  to  pray.  It  was  mine  to 
act. 

I  lost  no  time,  but  on  my  return  I  could  not  find  Master 
Bertie  either  in  the  public  room  or  in  the  inn  yard,  so  I 
sought  him  in  his  bedroom,  where  I  found  him  placidly 
reading  a  book;  his  patient  waiting  in  striking  contrast  with 
the  feverish  anxiety  which  had  taken  hold  of  me.  "What 
is  it,  lad?"  he  said,  closing  the  volume,  and  laying  it  down 
on  my  entrance.  "You  look  disturbed?" 

"I  have  seen  Mistress  Anne,"  I  answered.  He  whistled 
softly,  staring  at  me  without  a  word.  "She  knows  all,"  I 
continued. 


THE  COMING  QUEEN.  229 

"How  much  is  all?"  he  asked  after  a  pause. 

"Our  names — all  our  names,  Penruddocke's,  Kingston's, 
the  others;  our  meeting-place,  and  that  we  hold  Clarence  a 
prisoner.  She  was  that  old  woman  whom  we  saw  at  the 
Gatehouse  tavern  last  night." 

He  nodded,  appearing  neither  greatly  surprised  nor 
greatly  alarmed.  "Does  she  intend  to  use  her  knowledge ? ' ' 
he  said.  "I  suppose  she  does." 

"Unless  we  let  him  go  safe  and  unhurt  before  sunset." 

"They  will  never  consent  to  it,"  he  answered,  shaking 
his  head. 

"Then  they  will  hang!"   I  cried. 

He  looked  hard  at  me  a  moment,  discerning  something 
strange  in  the  bitterness  of  my  last  words.  "Come,  lad," 
he  said,  "you  have  not  told  me  all.  What  else  have  you 
learned?" 

"How  can  I  tell  you?"  I  cried  wildly,  waving  him  off, 
and  going  to  the  lattice  that  my  face  might  be  hidden 
from  him.  "Heaven  has  cursed  me!"  I  added,  my  voice 
breaking. 

He  came  and  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder.  "Heaven 
curses  no  one,"  he  said.  "Most  of  our  curses  we  make  for 
ourselves.  What  is  it,  lad?" 

I  covered  my  face  with  my  hands.  "He — he  is  my 
father,"  I  muttered.  "Do  you  understand?  Do  you  see 
what  I  have  done?  He  is  my  father!" 

"Ha!"  Master  Bertie  uttered  that  one  exclamation  in 
intense  astonishment ;  then  he  said  no  more.  But  the  pres- 
sure of  his  hand  told  me  that  he  understood,  that  he  felt 
with  me,  that  he  would  help  me.  And  that  silent  compre- 
hension, that  silent  assurance,  gave  the  sweetest  comfort. 
"He  must  be  allowed  to  go, then,  for  this  time,"  he  resumed 
gravely,  after  a  pause  in  which  I  had  had  time  to  recover 
myself.  "We  will  see  to  it.  But  there  will  be  difficulties. 
You  must  be  strong  and  brave.  The  truth  must  be  told. 
It  is  the  only  way." 

I  saw  that  it  was,  though  I  shrank  exceedingly  from  the 
ordeal  before  me.  Master  Bertie  advised,  when  I  grew 
more  calm,  that  we  should  be  the  first  at  the  rendezvous,  lest 
by  some  chance  Penruddocke's  orders  should  be  anticipat- 
ed; and  accordingly,  soon  after  two  o'clock,  we  mounted, 


230  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

and  set  forth.  I  remarked  that  my  companion  looked  very 
carefully  to  his  arms,  and,  taking  the  hint,  I  followed  his 
example. 

It  was  a  silent,  melancholy,  anxious  ride.  However  suc- 
cessful we  might  be  in  rescuing  my  father — alas!  that  I 
should  have  to-day  and  always  to  call  that  man  father — I 
could  not  escape  the  future  before  me.  I  had  felt  shame 
while  he  was  but  a  name  to  me;  how  could  I  endure  to  live, 
with  his  infamy  always  before  my  eyes?  Petronilla,  of  whom 
I  had  been  thinking  so  much  since  I  returned  to  England, 
whose  knot  of  velvet  had  never  left  my  breast  nor  her  gentle 
face  my  heart — how  could  I  go  back  to  her  now?  I  had 
thought  my  father  dead,  and  his  name  and  fame  old  tales. 
But  the  years  of  foreign  life  which  yesterday  had  seemed  a 
sufficient  barrier  between  his  past  and  myself — of  what 
use  were  they  now?  Or  the  foreign  service  I  had  fondly 
regarded  as  a  kind  of  purification? 

Master  Bertie  broke  in  on  my  reverie  much  as  if  he  had 
followed  its  course.  "Understand  one  thing,  lad!"  he 
said,  laying  his  hand  on  the  withers  of  my  horse.  "Yours 
must  not  be  the  hand  to  punish  your  father.  But  after 
to-day  you  will  owe  him  no  duty.  You  will  part  from  him 
to-day  and  he  will  be  a  stranger  to  you.  He  deserted  you 
when  you  were  a  child;  and  if  you  owe  reverence  to  any 
one,  it  is  to  your  uncle  and  not  to  him.  He  has  himself 
severed  the  ties  between  you." 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "I  will  go  abroad.  I  will  go  back  to 
Wilna." 

"If  ill  comes  of  our  enterprise — as  I  fear  ill  will  come — we 
will  both  go  back,  if  we  can,"  he  answered.  "If  good  by 
any  chance  should  come  of  it,  then  you  shall  be  my  brother, 
our  family  shall  be  your  family.  The  Duchess  is  rich 
enough,"  he  added  with  a  smile,  "to  allow  you  a  younger 
brother's  portion." 

I  could  not  answer  him  as  I  desired,  for  we  passed  at  that 
moment  under  the  archway,  and  became  instantly  involved 
in  the  bustle  going  forward  in  the  courtyard.  Near  the 
principal  door  of  the  inn  stood  eight  or  nine  horses  gayly 
caparisoned  and  in  the  charge  of  three  foreign-looking  men, 
who,  lounging  in  their  saddles,  were  passing  a  jug  from  hand 
to  hand.  They  turned  as  we  rode  in  and  looked  at  us  curi- 


THE  COMING  QUEEN.  231 

ously,  but  not  with  any  impertinence.  Apparently  they 
were  waiting  for  the  rest  of  their  party,  who  were  inside  the 
house.  Civilly  disposed  as  they  seemed,  the  fact  that  they 
were  armed,  and  wore  rich  liveries  of  black  and  gold, 
caused  me,  and  I  think  both  of  us,  a  momentary  alarm. 

"Who  are  they?"  Master  Bertie  asked  in  a  low  voice,  as 
he  rode  to  the  opposite  door  and  dismounted  with  his  back 
to  them. 

"They  are  Spaniards,  I  fancy,"  I  said,  scanning  them 
over  the  shoulders  of  my  horse  as  I  too  got  off.  "Old 
friends,  so  to  speak." 

"They  seem  wonderfully  subdued  for  them,"  he  an- 
swered, "and  on  their  best  behavior.  If  half  the  tales  we 
heard  this  morning  be  true,  they  are  not  wont  to  carry 
themselves  like  this."- 

Yet  they  certainly  were  Spanish,  for  I  overheard  them 
speaking  to  one  another  in  that  language ;  and  before  we  had 
well  dismounted,  their  leader — whom  they  received  with 
great  respect,  one  of  them  jumping  down  to  hold  his  stirrup — 
came  out  with  three  or  four  more  and  got  to  horse  again. 
Turning  his  rein  to  lead  the  way  out  through  the  north  gate 
he  passed  near  us,  and  as  he  settled  himself  in  his  saddle 
took  a  good  look  at  us.  The  look  passed  harmlessly  over 
me,  but  reaching  Master  Bertie  became  concentrated.  The 
rider  started  and  smiled  faintly.  He  seemed  to  pause, 
then  he  raised  his  plumed  cap  and  bowed  low — covered 
himself  again  and  rode  on.  His  train  all  followed  his 
example  and  saluted  us  as  they  passed.  Master  Bertie's 
face,  which  had  flushed  a  fiery  red  under  the  other's  gaze, 
grew  pale  again.  He  looked  at  me,  when  they  had  gone  by, 
with  startled  eyes. 

"Do  you  know  who  that  was?"  he  said,  speaking  like  one 
who  had  received  a  blow  and  did  not  yet  know  how  much 
he  was  hurt. 

"No,"  I  said. 

"It  was  the  Count  de  Feria,  the  Spanish  Ambassador," 
he  answered.  "And  he  recognized  me.  I  met  him  often, 
years  ago.  I  knew  him  again  as  soon  as  he  came  out,  but  I 
did  not  think  he  would  by  any  chance  recognize  me  in  this 
dress." 

"Are  you  sure,"  I  asked  in  amazement,  "that  it  was  he?" 

"Quite  sure,"  he  answered. 


232  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

"But  why  did  he  not  have  you  arrested,  or  at  least  de- 
tained? The  warrants  are  still  out  against  you." 

Master  Bertie  shook  his  head.  "I  cannot  tell,"  he  said 
darkly.  "He  is  a  Spaniard.  But  come,  we  have  the  less 
time  to  lose.  We  must  join  our  friends  and  take  their 
advice;  we  seem  to  be  surrounded  by  pitfalls." 

At  this  moment  the  lame  ostler  came  up,  and  grumbling 
at  us  as  if  he  had  never  seen  us  in  his  life  before,  and  never 
wished  to  see  us  again,  took  our  horses.  We  went  into  the 
kitchen,  and  taking  the  first  chance  of  slipping  upstairs  to 
No.  15,  we  were  admitted  with  the  same  precautions  as 
before,  and  descending  the  shaft  gained  the  cellar. 

Here  we  were  not,  as  we  had  looked  to  be,  the  first  on  the 
scene.  I  suppose  a  sense  of  the  insecurity  of  our  meeting- 
place  had  led  every  one  to  come  early,  so  as  to  be  gone 
early.  Penruddocke  indeed  was  not  here  yet,  but  Kingston 
and  half  a  score  of  others  were  sitting  about  conversing  in 
low  tones.  It  was  plain  that  the  distrust  and  suspicion 
which  we  had  remarked  on  the  previous  day  had  not  been 
allayed  by  the  discovery  of  Clarence's  treachery. 

Indeed,  it  was  clear  that  the  distrust  and  despondency 
had  to-day  become  a  panic.  Men  glared  at  one  another 
and  at  the  door,  and  talked  in  whispers  and  started  at  the 
slightest  sound.  I  glanced  round.  The  one  I  sought  for 
with  eager  yet  shrinking  eyes  was  not  to  be  seen.  I  turned 
to  Master  Bertie,  my  face  mutely  calling  on  him  to  ask  the 
question.  "Where  is  the  prisoner?"  he  said  sharply. 

A  moment  I  hung  in  suspense.  Then  one  of  the  men 
said,  "He  is  in  there.  He  is  safe  enough!"  He  pointed, 
as  he  spoke,  to  a  door  which  seemed  to  lead  to  an  inner 
cellar. 

"Right,"  said  Master  Bertie,  still  standing.  "I  have  two 
pieces  of  bad  news  for  you  nevertheless.  Firstly  I  have 
just  been  recognized  by  the  Spanish  Ambassador,  whom  I 
met  in  the  courtyard  above." 

Half  the  men  rose  to  their  feet.  "What  is  he  doing 
here?"  they  cried,  one  boldly,  the  others  with  the  quaver 
very  plain  in  their  voices. 

"I  do  not  know;  but  he  recognized  me.  Why  he  took 
no  steps  to  detain  or  arrest  me  I  cannot  tell.  He  rode 
away  by  the  north  road." 


THE  COMING  QUEEN.  233 

They  gazed  at  one  another  and  we  at  them.  The  wolfish 
look  which  fear  brings  into  some  faces  grew  stronger  in 
theirs. 

"What  is  your  other  bad  news?"  said  Kingston,  with  an 
oath. 

"A  person  outside,  a  friend  of  the  prisoner,  has  a  list  of 
our  names,  and  knows  our  meeting-place  and  our  plans. 
She  threatens  to  use  the  knowledge  unless  the  man  Clarence 
or  Crewdson  be  set  free." 

There  was  a  loud  murmur  of  wrath  and  dismay,  amid 
which  Kingston  alone  preserved  his  composure.  "We 
might  have  been  prepared  for  that,"  he  said  quietly.  "It 
is  an  old  precaution  of  such  folk.  But  how  did  you  come 
to  hear  of  it?" 

"My  friend  here  saw  the  messenger  and  heard  the  terms. 
The  man  must  be  set  free  by  sunset." 

"And  what  warranty  have  we  that  he  will  not  go  straight 
with  his  plans  and  his  list  to  the  Council?" 

Master  Bertie  could  not  answer  that,  neither  could  I ;  we 
had  no  surety,  and  if  we  set  him  free  could  take  none  save 
his  word.  His  word !  Could  even  I  ask  them  to  accept 
that  ?  To  stake  the  life  of  the  meanest  of  them  on  it? 

I  saw  the  difficulties  of  the  position,  and  when  Master 
Kingston  pronounced  coolly  that  this  was  a  waste  of  time, 
and  that  the  only  wise  course  was  to  dispose  of  the  principal 
witness,  both  in  the  interests  of  justice  and  our  own  safety, 
and  then  shift  for  ourselves  before  the  storm  broke,  I 
acknowledged  in  my  heart  the  wisdom  of  the  course,  and 
felt  that  yesterday  it  would  have  received  my  assent. 

"The  risk  is  about  the  same  either  way,"  Master  Bertie 
said. 

"Not  at  all,"  Kingston  objected,  a  sparkle  of  malice  in 
his  eye.  Last  night  we  had  thwarted  him.  To-night  it  was 
his  turn ;  and  the  dark  lowering  looks  of  those  round  him 
showed  that  numbers  were  with  him.  "This  fellow  can 
hang  us  all.  His  accomplice  who  escapes  can  know  noth- 
ing save  through  him,  and  could  give  only  vague  and  un- 
certain evidence.  No,  no.  Let  us  cast  lots  who  shall  do 
it,  get  it  done  quickly,  and  begone." 

"We  must  wait  at  least,"  Bertie  urged,  "until  Sir 
Thomas  comes."  • 

"No!"  retorted  Kingston,  with  heat.     "We  are  all  equal 


234  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

here.  Besides  the  man  was  condemned  yesterday,  with  the 
full  assent  of  all.  It  only  remains  to  carry  out  the  sentence. 
Surely  this  gentleman,"  he  continued,  turning  suddenly 
upon  me,  "who  was  so  ready  to  accuse  him  yesterday,  does 
not  wish  him  spared  to-day?" 

"I  do  wish  it,"  I  said,  in  a  low  tone. 

"Ho!  ho!"  he  cried,  folding  his  arms  and  throwing 
back  his  head,  astonished  at  the  success  of  his  own  question. 
"Then  may  we  ask  for  your  reasons,  sir?  Last  night  you 
could  not  lay  your  tongue  to  words  too  bad  for  him.  To- 
night you  wish  to  spare  him,  and  let  him  go?" 

"I  do,"  I  said.  I  felt  that  every  eye  was  upon  me,  and 
that,  Master  Bertie  excepted,  not  one  there  would  feel  sym- 
pathy with  me  in  my  humiliation.  They  were  driven  to  the 
wall.  They  had  no  time  for  fine  feeling,  for  sympathy,  for 
appreciation  of  the  tragic,  unless  it  touched  themselves. 
What  chance  had  I  with  them,  though  I  was  a  son  pleading 
for  a  father?  Nay,  what  argument  had  I  save  that  I  was  his 
son,  and  that  I  had  brought  him  to  this?  No  argument. 
Only  the  appeal  to  them  that  they  would  not  make  me  a 
parricide!  And  I  felt  that  at  this  they  would  mock. 

And  so,  in  view  of  those  stern,  curious  faces,  a  new 
temptation  seized  me — the  temptation  to  be  silent.  Why 
should  I  not  stand  by  and  let  things  take  their  course? 
Why  should  I  not  spare  myself  the  shame  which  I  already 
saw  would  be  fruitless?  When  Master  Kingston,  with  a 
cynical  bow,  said,  "Your  reasons,  sir?"  I  stood  mute  and 
trembling.  If  I  kept  silence,  if  I  refused  to  give  my 
reasons,  if  I  did  not  acknowledge  the  prisoner,  but  merely 
begged  his  life,  he  would  die,  and  the  connection  between 
us  would  be  known  only  to  one  or  two.  I  should  be  freed 
from  him  and  might  go  my  own  way.  The  sins  of  Ferdi- 
nand Cludde  were  well-nigh  forgotten — why  take  to  myself 
the  sins  of  Clarence,  which  would  otherwise  never  stain  my 
name,  would  never  be  associated  with  my  father  or  myself? 

Why,  indeed?  It  was  a  great  and  sore  temptation,  as  I 
stood  there  before  all  those  eyes.  He  had  deserved  death. 
I  had  given  him  up  in  perfect  innocence.  Had  I  any  right 
to  call  on  them  to  risk  their  lives  that  I  might  go  harmless  in 
conscience,  and  he  in  person?  Had  I 

What,  was  there  after  all  some  taint  in  my  blood?  Was 
I  going  to  become  like  him — to  take  to  myself  a  shame  of 


THE  COMING  QUEEN.  235 

my  own  earning,  in  the  effort  to  escape  from  the  burden  of 
his  ill-fame?  I  remembered  in  time  the  oath  I  had  sworn, 
and  when  Kingston  repeated  his  question,  I  answered  him 
quickly.  "I  did  not  know  yesterday  who  he  was,"  I  said. 
"I  have  discovered  since  that  he  is  my  father.  I  ask  noth- 
ing on  his  account.  Were  he  only  my  father  I  would  not 
plead  for  him.  I  plead  for  myself,"  I  murmured.  "If  you 
show  no  pity,  you  make  me  a  parricide." 

I  had  done  them  wrong.  There  was  something  in  my 
voice,  I  suppose,  as  I  said  the  words  which  cost  me  so 
much,  which  wrought  with  almost  all  of  them  in  a  degree. 
They  gazed  at  me  with  awed,  wondering  faces,  and  mur- 
mured "His  father!"  in  low  tones.  They  were  recalling 
the  scene  of  last  night,  the  moment  when  I  had  denounced 
him,  the  curse  he  had  hurled  at  me,  the  half-told  story  of 
which  that  had  seemed  the  climax.  I  had  wronged  them. 
They  did  see  the  tragedy  of  it. 

Yes,  they  pitied  me ;  but  they  showed  plainly  that  they 
would  still  do  what  perhaps  I  should  have  done  in  their 
place — justice.  "He  knows  too  much!"  said  one.  "Our 
lives  are  as  good  as  his,"  muttered  another — the  first  to 
become  thoroughly  himself  again — "why  should  we  all  die 
for  him?"  The  wolfish  glare  came  back  fast  to  their  eyes. 
They  handled  their  weapons  impatiently.  They  were  long- 
ing to  be  away.  At  this  moment,  when  I  saw  I  had  indeed 
made  my  confession  in  vain,  Master  Bertie  struck  in. 
"What,"  he  said,  "if  Master  Carey  and  I  take  charge  of 
him,  and  escorting  him  to  his  agent  without,  be  answerable 
for  both  of  them?" 

"You  would  be  only  putting  your  necks  into  the  noose!" 
said  Kingston. 

"We  will  risk  that!"  replied  my  friend — and  what  a 
friend  and  what  a  man  he  seemed  amid  that  ignoble  crew! — 
"I  will  myself  promise  you  that  if  he  refuse  to  remain  with 
us  until  midnight,  or  tries  wherever  we  are  to  raise  an  alarm 
or  communicate  with  any  one,  I  will  run  him  through  with 
my  own  hand?  Will  not  that  satisfy  you?" 

"No,"  Master  Kingston  retorted,  "it  will  not!  A  bird 
in  the  hand  is  worth  two  in  the  bush!" 

"But  the  woman  outside?"  said  one  timidly. 

"We  must  run  that  risk!"  quoth  he.  "In  an  hour  or 
two  we  shall  be  in  hiding.  Come,  the  lot  must  be  drawn* 
For  this  gentleman,  let  him  stand  aside." 


236  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

I  leaned  against  the  wall,  dazed  and  horror-stricken. 
Now  that  I  had  identified  myself  with  him  I  felt  a  great  long- 
ing to  save  him.  I  scarcely  noticed  the  group  drawing  pieces 
of  paper  at  the  table.  My  every  thought  was  taken  up  with 
the  low  door  over  there,  and  the  wretched  man  lying  bound 
in  the  darkness  behind  it.  What  must  be  the  horror,  the 
black  despair,  the  hate  and  defiance  of  his  mind  as  he  lay 
there,  trapped  at  last  like  any  beast  of  prey?  It  was  horri- 
ble! horrible!  horrible! 

I  covered  my  face  and  could  not  restrain  the  cry  of  un- 
utterable distress  which  rose  to  my  lips.  They  looked  round, 
two  or  three  of  them,  from  the  table.  But  the  impression 
my  appeal  had  made  upon  them  had  faded  away  already, 
and  they  only  shrugged  their  shoulders  and  turned  again  to 
their  task.  Master  Bertie  alone  stood  apart,  his  arms 
folded,  his  face  grave  and  dark.  He  too  had  abandoned 
hope.  There  seemed  no  hope,  when  suddenly  there  came 
a  knocking  at  the  door.  The  papers  were  dropped,  and 
while  some  stood  as  if  stiffened  into  stone,  others  turned 
and  gazed  at  their  neighbors.  It  was  a  knocking  more 
hasty  and  imperative  than  the  usual  summons,  though  given 
in  the  same  fashion.  At  last  a  man  found  tongue.  "It 
is  Sir  Thomas,"  he  suggested,  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  "He 
is  in  a  hurry  and  brings  news.  I  know  his  knock." 

"Then  open  the  door,  fool,"  cried  Kingston.  "If  you 
can  see  through  a  two-inch  plank,  why  do  you  stand  there 
like  a  gaby?" 

Master  Bertie  anticipated  the  man,  and  himself  opened 
the  door  and  admitted  the  knocker.  Penruddocke  it  was; 
he  came  in,  still  drumming  on  the  door  with  his  fist,  his 
eyes  sparkling,  his  ruddy  cheeks  aglow.  He  crossed  the 
threshold  with  a  swagger,  and  looking  at  us  all  burst  into  a 
strange  peal  of  laughter.  "Yoicks!  Gone  to  earth!"  he 
shouted,  waving  his  hand  as  if  he  had  a  whip  in  it.  "Gone 
to  earth — gone  forever!  Did  you  think  it  was  the  Lords  of 
the  Council,  my  lads'" 

He  had  len  the  door  wide  open  behind  him,  and  w^  now 
saw  in  the  doorway  r.e  seafaring  man  who  usually  guarded 
the  room  ahrve.  'What  does  this  mean,  Sir  Thomas?" 
Kingston  said  sternly.  He  thought,  I  fancy,  as  many  ot  us 
did,  that  the  knight  was  drunk.  "Have  you  given  thai  man 
permission  to  leave  his  post?" 

"Post?     Theie  are  no  more  posts,"  cried  Sir  Thomas, 


THE   COMING  QUEEN.  237 

with  a  strange  jollity.  He  certainly  was  drunk,  but  perhaps 
not  with  liquor.  "Except  good  fat  posts,"  he  continued, 
smacking  Master  Bertie  on  the  shoulder,  "for  loyal  men 
who  have  done  the  state  service,  and  risked  their  lives  in 
evil  times!  Posts?  I  shall  get  so  drunk  to-night  that  the 
stoutest  post  on  Ludgate  will  not  hold  me  up!" 

"You  seem  to  have  gone  far  that  way  already,"  my  friend 
said  coldly. 

"So  will  you,  when  you  hear  the  news!"  Penruddocke 
replied  more  soberly.  "Lads,  the  Queen  is  dying!" 

In  the  vaulted  room  his  statement  was  received  in  silence ; 
a  silence  dictated  by  no  feeling  for  the  woman  going  before 
her  Maker — how  should  we  who  were  plotting  against  her 
feel  for  her,  we  who  were  for  the  most  part  homeless  and 
proscribed  through  her? — but  the  silence  of  men  in  doubt,  in 
doubt  whether  this  might  mean  all  that  from  Sir  Thomas's 
aspect  it  seemed  to  mean. 

"She  cannot  live  a  week!"  Penruddocke  continued. 
"The  doctors  have  given  up  hope,  and  at  the  palace  all  is  in 
confusion.  She  has  named  the  Princess  Elizabeth  her  suc- 
cessor, and  even  now  Cecil  is  drawing  up  the  proclamations. 
To  show  that  the  game  is  really  up,  the  Count  de  Feria,  the 
Spanish  Ambassador,  has  gone  this  very  day  to  Hatfield  to 
pay  his  respects  to  the  coming  queen." 

Then  indeed  the  vaulted  roof  did  ring — ring  and  ring 
again  with  shouts-of  "The  Coming  Queen!"  Men  over 
whom  the  wings  of  death  had  seemed  a  minute  ago  to  be 
hovering,  darkening  all  things  to  them,  looked  up  and  saw 
the  sun.  "The  Coming  Queen  !"  they  cried. 

"You  need  fear  nothing!"  continued  Penruddocke 
wildly.  "No  one  will  dare  to  execute  the  warrants.  The 
Bishops  are  shaking  in  their  miters.  Pole  is  said  to  be 
dying.  Bonner  is  more  likely  to  hang  himself  than  burn 
others.  Up  and  out  and  play  the  man !  Away  to  your 
counties  and  get  ready  your  tar-barrels !  Now  we  will  give 
them  a  taste  of  the  Cujus  Regio!  Ho!  drawer,  there!  A 
cup  of  ale!" 

He  turned,  and  shouting  a  scrap  of  a  song,  swaggered 
back  into  the  shaft  and  began  to  ascend.  They  all  trooped 
after  him,  talking  and  laughing,  a  reckless,  good-natured 
crew,  looking  to  a  man  as  if  they  had  never  known  fear  or 
selfishness — as  if  distrust  were  a  thing  impossible  to  them. 


238  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

Master  Kingston  alone,  whom  his  losses  had  soured  and 
who  still  brooded  over  his  revenge,  went  off  moodily. 

I  was  for  stopping  one  of  them ;  but  Master  Bertie 
directed  my  eyes  by  a  gesture  of  his  hand  to  the  door  at  the 
far  end  of  the  cellar,  and  I  saw  that  the  key  was  in  the  lock. 
He  wrung  my  hand  hard.  "Tell  him  all,"  he  muttered. 
"I  will  wait  above." 


CHAPTER  XXL 

MY    FATHER. 

him  all?  I  stood  thinking,  my  hand  on  the  key. 
The  voices  of  the  rearmost  of  the  conspirators  sounded 
more  and  more  faintly  as  they  passed  up  the  shaft,  until 
their  last  accents  died  in  the  room  above,  and  silence  fol- 
lowed; a  silence  in  strange  contrast  with  the  bright  glare  of 
the  torches  which  burned  round  me  and  lit  up  the  empty 
cellar  as  for  a  feast.  I  was  wondering  what  he  would  say 
when  I  told  him  all — when  I  said  "I  am  your  son!  I,  whom 
Providence  has  used  to  thwart  your  plans,  whose  life  you 
sought,  whom,  without  a  thought  of  pity,  you  left  to  perish ! 
I  am  your  son!" 

Infinitely  I  dreaded  the  moment  when  I  should  tell  him 
this,  and  hear  his  answer;  and  I  lingered  with  my  hand  on 
the  key  until  an  abrupt  knocking  on  the  other  side  of  the 
door  brought  the  blood  to  my  face.  Before  I  could  turn 
the  key  the  hasty  summons  was  repeated,  and  grew  to  a 
frantic,  hurried  drumming  on  the  boards — a  sound  which 
plainly  told  of  terror  suddenly  conceived  and  in  an  instant 
full-grown.  A  hoarse  cry  followed,  coming  dully  to  my 
ears  through  the  thickness  of  the  door,  and  the  next  mo- 
ment the  stout  planks  shook  as  a  heavy  weight  fell  against 
them. 

I  turned  the  key,  and  the  door  was  flung  open  from 
within.  My  father  stumbled  out. 

The  strong  light  for  an  instant  blinded  him,  and  he  blinked 
as  an  owl  does  brought  to  the  sunshine.  Even  in  him  the 
long  hours  passed  in  solitude  and  the  blackness  of  despair 
had  worked  changes.  His  hair  was  grayer;  in  patches  it 
was  almost  white,  and  then  again  dark.  He  had  gnawed  his 
lower  lip,  and  there  were  bloodstains  on  it.  His  mustache, 


240  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

too,  was  ragged  and  torn,  as  if  he  had  gnawed  that  also. 
His  eyes  were  bloodshot,  his  lean  face  was  white  and  hag- 
gard and  fierce. 

"Ha!"  he  cried,  trembling,  as  he  peered  round,  "I 
thought  they  had  left  me  to  starve!  There  were  rats  in 
there!  I  thought " 

He  stopped.  He  saw  me  standing  holding  the  edge  of 
the  door.  He  saw  that  otherwise  the  room  was  empty,  the 
farther  door  leading  to  the  shaft  open.  An  open  door!  To 
him  doubtless  it  seemed  of  all  sights  the  most  wonderful, 
the  most  heavenly!  His  knees  began  to  shake  under  him. 

"What  is  it?"  he  muttered.  "What  were  they  shouting 
about?  I  heard  them  shouting." 

"The  queen  is  dying,"  I  answered  simply,  "or  dead,  and 
you  can  do  us  no  more  harm.  You  are  free." 

"Free?"  He  repeated  the  word,  leaning  against  the 
wall,  his  eyes  wild  and  glaring,  his  lips  parted. 

"Yes,  free,"  I  answered,  in  a  lower  voice — "free  to  go 
out  into  the  air  of  heaven  a  living  man!"  I  paused.  For 
a  moment  I  could  not  continue.  Then  I  added  solemnly, 
"Sir,  Providence  has  saved  you  from  death,  and  me  from  a 
crime." 

He  leaned  still  against  the  wall,  dazed,  thunderstruck, 
almost  incredulous,  and  looked  from  me  to  the  open  door 
and  back  again  as  if  without  this  constant  testimony  of  his 
eyes  he  could  not  believe  in  his  escape. 

"It  was  not  Anne?"  he  murmured.     "She  did  not " 

"She  tried  to  save  your  life,"  I  answered;  "but  they 
would  not  listen  to  her." 

"Did  she  come  here?" 

As  he  spoke,  he  straightened  himself  with  an  effort  and 
stood  up.  He  was  growing  more  like  himself. 

"No,"  I  answered.  "She  sent  for  me  and  told  me  her 
terms.  But  Kingston  and  the  others  would  not  listen  to 
them.  You  would  have  been  dead  now,  though  I  did  all  I 
could  to  save  you,  if  Penruddocke  had  not  brought  this 
news  of  the  queen." 

"She  is  dead?" 

"She  is  dying.  The  Spanish  Ambassador,"  I  added,  to 
clinch  the  matter,  for  I  saw  he  doubted,  "rode  through 
here  this  afternoon  to  pay  his  court  to  the  Princess  Eliza- 
beth at  Hatfield." 


MY  FATHER.  241 

He  looked  down  at  the  ground,  thinking  deeply.  Most 
men  would  have  been  unable  to  think  at  all,  unable  to  con- 
centrate their  thoughts  on  anything  save  their  escape  from 
death.  But  a  life  of  daily  risk  and  hazard  had  so  hardened 
this  man  that  I  was  certain,  as  I  watched  him,  that  he  was 
not  praying  nor  giving  thanks.  He  was  already  pondering 
how  he  might  make  the  most  out  of  the  change;  how  he 
might  to  the  best  advantage  sell  his  knowledge  of  the  gov- 
ernment whose  hours  were  numbered  to  the  government 
which  soon  would  be.  The  life  of  intrigue  had  become 
second  nature  to  him. 

He  looked  up  and  our  eyes  met.  We  gazed  at  one 
another. 

"Why  are  you  here?"  he  said  curiously.  "Why  did  they 
leave  you?  Why  were  you  the  one  to  stop  to  set  me  free, 
Master  Carey?" 

"My  name  is  not  Carey,"  I  answered. 

"What  is  it,  then?"  he  asked  carelessly. 

"Cludde,"  I  answered  softly. 

"Cludde!"  He  called  it  out.  Even  his  self-mastery 
could  not  cope  with  this  surprise.  "Cludde,"  he  said 
again — said  it  twice  in  a  lower  voice. 

"Yes,  Cludde,"  I  answered,  meeting  and  yet  shrinking 
from  his  questioning  eyes,  "my  name  is  Cludde.  So  is 
yours.  I  tried  to  save  your  life,  because  I  learned  from 
Mistress  Anne " 

I  paused.  I  shrank  from  telling  him  that  which,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  would  strike  him  to  the  ground  in  shame  and 
horror.  But  he  had  no  fear. 

"What?"  he  cried.      "What  did  you  learn?" 

"That  you  are  my  father,"  I  answered  slowly.  "I  am 
Francis  Cludde,  the  son  whom  you  deserted  many  years 
ago,  and  to  whom  Sir  Anthony  gave  a  home  at  Coton."  •*> 

I  expected  him  to  do  anything  except  what  he  did.  He 
stared  at  me  with  astonished  eyes  for  a  minute,  and  then  a 
low  whistle  issued  from  his  lips. 

"My  son,  are  you!  My  son!"  he  said  coolly.  "And 
how  long  have  you  known  this,  young  sir?" 

"Since  yesterday,"  I  murmured.  The  words  he  had  used 
on  that  morning  at  Santon,  when  he  had  bidden  me  die  and 
rot,  were  fresh  in  my  memory — in  my  memory,  not  in  his. 
I  recalled  his  treachery  to  the  Duchess,  his  pursuit  of  us, 


242  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

his  departure  with  Anne,  the  words  in  which  he  had  cursed 
me.  He  remembered  apparently  none  of  these  things,  but 
simply  gazed  at  me  with  a  thoughtful  smile. 

"I  wish  I  had  known  it  before,"  he  said  at  last.  "Things 
might  have  been  different.  A  pretty  dutiful  son  you  have 
been!" 

The  sneer  did  me  good.  It  recalled  to  my  mind  what 
Master  Bertie  had  said. 

"There  can  be  no  question  of  duty  between  us,"  I 
answered  firmly.  "What  duty  I  owe  to  any  one  of  my 
family,  I  owe  to  my  uncle." 

"Then  why  have  you  told  me  this?" 

"Because  I  thought  it  right  you  should  know  it,"  I  an- 
swered, "were  it  only  that,  knowing  it,  we  may  go  different 
ways.  We  have  nearly  done  one  another  a  mischief  more 
than  once,"  I  added  gravely. 

He  laughed.  He  was  not  one  whit  abashed  by  the  dis- 
covery, nor  awed,  nor  cast  down.  There  was  even  in  his 
cynical  face  a  gleam  of  kindliness  and  pride  as  he  scanned 
me.  We  were  almost  of  a  height — I  the  taller  by  an  inch 
or  two;  and  in  our  features  I  believe  there  was  a  likeness, 
though  not  such  as  to  invite  remark. 

"You  have  grown  to  be  a  chip  of  the  old  block,"  he  said 
coolly.  "I  would  as  soon  have  you  for  a  son  as  another.  I 
think  on  the  whole  I  am  pleased.  You  talked  of  Provi- 
dence just  now" — this  with  a  laugh  of  serene  amusement — 
"and  perhaps  you  were  right.  Perhaps  there  is  such  a 
thing.  For  I  am  growing  old,  and  lo!  it  gives  me  a  son  to 
take  care  of  me." 

I  shook  my  head.  I  could  never  be  that  kind  of  son  to 
him. 

"Wait  a  bit,"  he  said,  frowning  slightly.  "You  think 
your  side  is  up  and  mine  is  down,  and  I  can  do  you  no  good 
now,  but  only  harm.  You  are  ashamed  of  me.  Well, 
wait,"  he  continued,  nodding  confidently.  "Do  not  be 
too  sure  that  I  cannot  help  you.  I  have  been  wrecked  a 
dozen  times,  but  I  never  yet  failed  to  find  a  boat  that  would 
take  me  to  shore." 

Yes,  he  was  so  arrogant  in  the  pride  of  his  many  deceits 
that  an  hour  after  Heaven  had  stretched  out  its  hand  to  save 
him,  he  denied  its  power  and  took  the  glory  to  himself.  I 
did  not  know  what  to  say  to  him,  how  to  undeceive  him,  how 


MY  FA  THER.  243 

to  tell  him  that  it  was  not  the  failure  of  his  treachery  which 
shamed  me,  but  the  treachery  itself.  I  could  only  remain 
silent. 

And  so  he  mistook  me;  and,  after  pondering  a  moment 
with  his  chin  in  his  hand,  he  continued: 

"I  have  a  plan,  my  lad.  The  Queen  dies.  Well — I  am 
no  bigot — long  live  the  Queen  and  the  Protestant  religion ! 
The  down  will  be  up  and  the  up  down,  and  the  Protestants 
will  be  everything.  It  will  go  hard  then  with  those  who  cling 
to  the  old  faith." 

He  looked  at  me  with  a  crafty  smile,  his  head  on  one  side. 

"I  do  not  understand,"  I  said  coldly. 

"Then  listen.  Sir  Anthony,  will  hold  by  his  religion. 
He  used  to  be  a  choleric  gentleman,  and  as  obstinate  as  a 
mule.  He  will  need  but  to  be  pricked  up  a  little,  and  he 
will  get  into  trouble  with  the  authorities  as  sure  as  eggs  are 
eggs.  I  will  answer  for  it.  And  then " 

"Well?"  I  said  grimly.  How  was  I  to  observe  even  a 
show  of  respect  for  him  when  I  was  quivering  with  fierce 
wrath  and  abhorrence?  "Do  you  think  that  will  benefit 
you  ?  "  I  cried.  "Do  you  think  that  you  are  so  high  in  favor 
with  Cecil  and  the  Protestants  that  they  will  set  you  in  Sir 
Anthony's  place?  You!" 

He  looked  at  me  still  m'ore  craftily,  not  put  out  by  my 
indignation,  but  rather  amused  by  it. 

"No,  lad,  not  me,"  he  replied,  with  tolerant  good-nature. 
"I  am  somewhat  blown  upon  of  late.  But  Providence  has 
not  given  me  back  my  son  for  nothing.  I  am  not  alone  in 
the  world  now.  I  must  remember  my  family.  I  must  think 
a  little  of  others  as  well  as  of  myself." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  said,  recoiling. 

He  scanned  me  for  a  moment,  with  his  eyes  half-shut, 
his  head  on  one  side.  Then  he  laughed,  a  cynical,  jarring 
laugh. 

"Good  boy!"  he  said.  "Excellent  boy!  He  knows  no 
more  than  he  is  told.  His  hands  are  clean,  and  he  has 
friends  upon  the  winning  side  who  will  not  see  him  lose  a 
chance,  should  a  chance  turn  up.  Be  satisfied.  Keep 
your  hands  clean  if  you  like,  boy.  We  understand  one 
another." 

He  laughed  again  and  turned  away ;  and,  much  as  I 
dreaded  and  disliked  him,  there  was  something  in  the  in- 


244  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

domitable  nature  of  the  man  which  wrung  from  me  a  meed 
of  admiration.  Could  the  best  of  men  have  recovered  more 
quickly  from  despair?  Could  the  best  of  men,  their  plans 
failing,  have  begun  to  spin  fresh  webs  with  equal  patience? 
Could  the  most  courageous  and  faithful  of  those  who  have 
tried  to  work  the  world's  bettering,  have  faced  the  downfall 
of  their  hopes  with  stouter  hearts,  with  more  genuine  resig- 
nation? Bad  as  he  was,  he  had  courage  and  endurance 
beyond  the  common. 

He  came  back  to  me  when  he  had  gone  a  few  paces. 

"Do  you  know  where  my  sword  is?"  he  asked  in  a  mat- 
ter-of-fact tone,  as  one  might  ask  a  question  of  an  old 
comrade. 

I  found  it  cast  aside  behind  the  door.  He  took  it  from 
me,  grumbling  over  a  nick  in  the  edge,  which  he  had 
caused  by  some  desperate  blow  when  he  was  seized.  He 
fastened  it  on  with  an  oath.  I  could  not  look  at  the  sword 
without  remembering  how  nearly  he  had  taken  my  life  with 
it.  The  recollection  did  not  trouble  him  in  the  slightest. 

"Now  farewell!"  he  said  carelessly,  "I  am  going  to  turn 
over  a  new  leaf,  and  begin  returning  good  for  evil.  Do  you 
go  to  your  friends  and  do  your  work,  and  I  will  go  to  my 
friends  and  do  mine." 

Then  with  a  nod  he  walked  briskly  away,  and  I  heard 
him  climb  the  ladder  and  depart. 

What  was  he  going  to  do?  I  was  so  deeply  amazed  by 
the  interview  that  I  did  not  understand.  I  had  thought 
him  a  wicked  man,  but  I  had  not  conceived  the  hardness  of 
his  nature.  As  I  stood  alone  looking  round  the  vault,  I 
could  hardly  believe  that  I  had  met  and  spoken  to  my 
father,  and  told  him  I  was  his  son — and  this  was  all!  I 
could  hardly  believe  that  he  had  gone  away  with  this  knowl- 
edge, unmoved  and  unrepentant;  alike  unwarned  by  the 
Providence  which  had  used  me  to  thwart  his  schemes,  and 
untouched  by  the  beneficence  which  had  thrice  held  him 
back  from  the  crime  of  killing  me — ay,  proof  even  against 
the  long-suffering  which  had  plucked  him  from  the  abyss 
and  given  him  one  more  chance  of  repentance. 

I  found  Master  Bertie  in  the  stables  waiting  for  me  with 
some  impatience.  Of  which,  upon  the  whole,  I  was  glad. 
For  I  had  no  wish  to  be  closely  questioned,  and  the  account 


MY  FATHER.  245 

I  gave  him  of  the  interview  might  at  another  time  have 
seemed  disjointed  and  incoherent.  He  listened  to  it,  how- 
ever, without  remark;  and  his  next  words  made  it  clear 
that  he  had  other  matters  in  his  mind. 

"I  do  not  know  what  to  do  about  fetching  the  Duchess 
over,"  he  said.  "This  news  seems  to  be  true,  and  she 
ought  to  be  here." 

"Certainly,"  I  agreed. 

"The  country  in  general  is  well  affected  to  the  Princess 
Elizabeth,"  he  continued.  "Yet  the  interests  of  the  Bish- 
ops, of  the  Spanish  faction,  and  of  some  of  the  council,  will 
lie  in  giving  trouble.  To  avoid  this,  we  should  show  our 
strength.  Therefore  I  want  the  Duchess  to  come  over  with 
all  speed.  Will  you  fetch  her?"  he  added  sharply,  turning 
to  me. 

"Will  I?"  I  cried  in  surprise. 

"Yes,  you.  I  cannot  well  go  myself  at  this  crisis.  Will 
you  go  instead?" 

"Of  course  I  will,"  I  answered. 

And  the  prospect  cheered  me  wonderfully.  It  gave  me 
something  to  do,  and  opened  my  eyes  to  the  great  change  of 
which  Penruddocke  had  been  the  herald,  a  change  which 
was  even  then  beginning.  As  we  rode  down  Highgate  Hill 
that  day,  messengers  were  speeding  north  and  south  and 
east  and  west,  to  Norwich  and  Bristol  and  Canterbury  and 
Coventry  and  York,  with  the  tidings  that  the  somber  rule 
under  which  England  had  groaned  for  five  years  and  more 
was  coming  to  an  end.  If  in  a  dozen  towns  of  England 
they  roped  their  bells  afresh;  if  in  every  county,  as  Pen- 
ruddocke had  prophesied,  they  got  their  tar-barrels  ready ; 
if  all,  save  a  few  old-fashioned  folk  and  a  few  gloomy  bigots 
and  hysterical  women,  awoke  as  from  an  evil  dream;  if  even 
sensible  men  saw  in  the  coming  of  the  young  queen  a  pana- 
cea for  all  their  ills — a  quenching  of  Smithfield  fires,  a  Calais 
recovered,  a  cure  for  the  worthless  coinage  which  hampered 
trade,  and  a  riddance  of  worthless  foreigners  who  plundered 
it — with  better  roads,  purer  justice,  a  fuller  Exchequer, 
more  favorable  seasons — if  England  read  all  this  in  that 
news  of  Penruddocke's,  was  it  not  something  to  us  also? 

It  was  indeed.  We  were  saved  at  the  last  moment  from 
the  dangerous  enterprise  on  which  we  had  rashly  embarked. 
We  had  now  such  prospects  before  us  as  only  the  success  of 


246  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

that  scheme  could  have  ordinarily  opened.  Ease  and  honor 
instead  of  the  gallows,  and  to  lie  warm  instead  of  creaking 
in  the  wind!  Thinking  of  this,  I  fell  into  a  better  frame  of 
mind  as  I  jogged  along  toward  London.  For  what,  after 
all,  was  my  father  to  me,  that  his  existence  should  make  me 
unhappy,  or  rob  mine  of  all  pleasure?  I  had  made  a  place 
for  myself  in  the  world.  I  had  earned  friends  for  myself. 
He  might  take  away  my  pride  in  the  one,  but  he  could 
never  rob  me  of  the  love  of  the  others — of  those  who  had 
eaten  and  drunk  and  fought  and  suffered  beside  me,  and  for 
whom  I  too  had  fought  and  suffered! 

"A  strange  time  for  the  swallows  to  come  back,"  said  my 
lady,  turning  to  smile  at  me,  as  I  rode  on  her  off-side. 

It  would  have  been  strange,  indeed,  if  there  had  been 
swallows  in  the  air.  For  it  was  the  end  of  December.  The 
roads  were  frost-bound  and  the  trees  leafless.  The  east 
wind,  gathering  force  in  its  rush  across  the  Essex  marshes, 
whirled  before  it  the  last  trophies  of  Hainault  Forest,  and 
seemed,  as  it  whistled  by  our  ears  and  shaved  our  faces,  to 
grudge  us  the  shelter  to  which  we  were  hastening.  The 
long  train  behind  us — for  the  good  times  of  which  we  had 
talked  so  often  had  come — were  full  of  the  huge  fire  we 
expected  to  find  at  the  inn  at  Barking — our  last  stage  on  the 
road  to  London.  And  if  the  Duchess  and  I  bore  the  cold 
more  patiently,  it  was  probably  because  we  had  more  food 
for  thought — and  perhaps  thicker  raiment. 

"Do  not  shake  your  head,"  she  continued,  glancing  at 
me  with  mischief  in  her  eyes,  "and  flatter  yourself  you  will 
not  go  back,  but  will  go  on  making  yourself  and  some  one 
else  unhappy.  You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  Francis. 
Before  the  spring  comes  you  and  I  will  ride  over  the  draw- 
bridge at  Coton  End,  or  I  am  a  Dutchwoman!" 

"I  cannot  see  that  things  are  changed,"  I  said. 

"Not  changed?"  she  replied.  "When  you  left,  you  were 
nobody.  Now  you  are  somebody,  if  it  be  only  in  having  a 
sister  with  a  dozen  serving-men  in  her  train.  Leave  it  to 
me.  And  now,  thank  Heaven,  we  are  here!  I  am  so  stiff 
and  cold,  you  must  lift  me  down.  We  have  not  to  ride  far 
after  dinner,  I  hope." 

"Only  seven  miles,"  I  answered,  as  the  host,  who  had 


MY  FATHER.  247 

been  warned  by  an  outrider  to  expect  us,  came  running  out 
with  a  tail  at  his  heels. 

"What  news  from  London,  Master  Landlord?"  I  said  to 
him  as  he  led  us  through  the  kitchen,  where  there  was  in- 
deed a  great  fire,  but  no  chimney,  and  so  to  a  smaller  room 
possessing  both  these  luxuries.  "Is  all  quiet?" 

"Certainly,  your  worship,"  he  replied,  bowing  and  rub- 
bing his  hands.  "There  never  was  such  an  accession,  nor 
more  ale  drunk,  nor  powder  burned — and  I  have  seen  three 
— and  there  was  pretty  shouting  at  old  King  Harry's,  but 
not  like  this.  Such  a  fair  young  queen,  men  report,  with 
a  look  of  the  stout  king  about  her,  and  as  prudent  and  dis- 
creet as  if  she  had  changed  heads  with  Sir  William  Cecil. 
God  bless  her,  say  I,  and  send  her  a  wise  husband!" 

"And  a  loving  one,"  quoth  my  lady  prettily.      "Amen." 

"I  am  glad  all  has  gone  off  well,"  I  continued,  speaking 
to  the  Duchess,  as  I  turned  to  the  blazing  hearth.  "If  there 
had  been  blows,  I  would  fain  have  been  here  to  strike  one." 

"Nay,  sir,  not  a  finger  has  wagged  against  her,"  the  land- 
lord answered,  kicking  the  logs  together — "to  speak  of,  that 
is,  your  worship.  I  do  hear  to-day  of  a  little  trouble  down 
in  Warwickshire.  But  it  is  no  more  than  a  storm  in  a  wash- 
tub,  I  am  told." 

"In  Warwickshire?"  I  said,  arrested,  in  the  act  of  taking 
off  my  cloak,  by  the  familiar  name.  "In  what  part,  my 
man?" 

"I  am  not  clear  about  that,  sir,  not  knowing  the  coun- 
try," he  replied.  "But  I  heard  that  a  gentleman  there  had 
fallen  foul  of  her  Grace's  orders  about  church  matters,  and 
beaten  the  officers  sent  to  see  them  carried  out ;  and  that, 
when  the  sheriff  remonstrated  with  him,  he  beat  him  too. 
But  I  warrant  they  will  soon  bring  him  to  his  senses." 

"Did  you  hear  his  name?"  I  asked.  There  was  a  natural 
misgiving  in  my  mind.  Warwickshire  was  large;  and  yet 
something  in  the  tale  smacked  of  Sir  Anthony. 

"I  did  hear  it,"  the  host  answered,  scratching  his  head, 
"but  I  cannot  call  it  to  mind.  I  think  I  should  know  it  if  I 
heard  it." 

"Was  it  Sir  Anthony  Cludde?" 

"It  was  that  very  same  name!"  he  exclaimed,  clapping 
his  hands  in  wonder.  "To  be  sure!  Your  worship  has  it 
pat!" 


248  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

I  slipped  back  into  my  cloak  again,  and  snatched  up  my 
hat  and  whip.  But  the  Duchess  was  as  quick.  She  stepped 
between  me  and  the  door. 

"Sit  down,  Francis!"  she  said  imperiously.  "What 
would  you  be  at?" 

"What  would  I  be  at?"  I  cried  with  emotion.  "I  would 
be  with  my  uncle.  I  shall  take  horse  at  once  and  ride  War- 
wickshire way  with  all  speed.  It  is  possible  that  I  may  be 
in  time  to  avert  the  consequences.  At  least  I  can  see  that 
my  cousin  comes  to  no  harm." 

"Good  lad,"  she  said  placidly.  "You  shall  start  to- 
morrow." 

"To-morrow!"  I  cried  impatiently.  "But  time  is  every- 
thing, madam." 

"You  shall  start  to-morrow,"  she  repeated.  "Time  is 
not  everything,  firebrand!  If  you  start  to-day  what  can 
you  do?  Nothing!  No  more  than  if  the  thing  had  hap- 
pened three  years  ago,  before  you  met  me.  But  to-morrow 
— when  you  have  seen  the  Secretary  of  State,  as  I  promise 
you  you  shall,  this  evening  if  he  be  in  London — to-morrow 
you  shall  go  in  a  different  character,  and  with  credentials." 

"You  will  do  this  for  me?"  I  exclaimed,  leaping  up  and 
taking  her  hand,  for  I  saw  in  a  moment  the  wisdom  of  the 
course  she  proposed.  "You  will  get  me " 

"I  will  get  you  something  to  the  purpose,"  my  lady 
answered  roundly.  "Something  that  shall  save  your  uncle 
if  there  be  any  power  in  England  can  save  him.  You  shall 
have  it,  Frank,"  she  added,  her  color  rising,  and  her  eyes 
filling,  as  I  kissed  her  hand,  "though  I  have  to  take  Master 
Secretary  by  the  beard!" 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

SIR  ANTHONY'S  PURPOSE. 

I"  ATE,  as  I  have  heard,  on  the  afternoon  of  November 
Ly  20,  1558,  a  man  riding  between  Oxford  and  Wor- 
cester, with  the  news  of  the  queen's  death,  caught  sight 
of  the  gateway  tower  at  Coton  End,  which  is  plainly  visible 
from  the  road.  Though  he  had  already  drunk  that  day  as 
much  ale  as  would  have  sufficed  him  for  a  week  when  the 
queen  was  well,  yet  much  wants  more.  He  calculated  he 
had  time  to  stop  and  taste  the  Squire's  brewing,  which  he 
judged,  from  the  look  of  the  tower,  might  be  worth  his  news; 
and  he  rode  through  the  gate  and  railed  at  his  nag  for 
stumbling. 

Half  way  across  the  Chase  he  met  Sir  Anthony.  The  old 
gentleman  was  walking  out,  with  his  staff  in  his  hand  and 
his  dogs  behind  him,  to  take  the  air  before  supper.  The 
man,  while  he  was  still  a  hundred  paces  off,  began  to  wave 
his  hat  and  shout  something,  which  ale  and  excitement  ren- 
dered unintelligible. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  said  Sir  Anthony  to  himself. 
And  he  stood  still. 

"The  queen  is  dead!"  shouted  the  messenger,  swaying 
in  his  saddle. 

The  knight  stared. 

"Ay,  sure!"  he  ejaculated  after  a  while.  And  he  took 
off  his  hat.  "Is  it  true,  man?" 

"As  true  as  that  I  left  London  yesterday  afternoon  and 
have  never  drawn  rein  since!"  swore  the  knave,  who  had 
been  three  days  on  the  road,  and  had  drunk  at  every  hostel 
and  at  half  the  manor-houses  between  London  and  Oxford. 

"God  rest  her  soul!"  said  Sir  Anthony  piously,  still  in 
somewhat  of  a  maze.  "And  do  you  come  in!  Come  in, 
man,  and  take  something." 


250  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

But  the  messenger  had  got  his  formula  by  heart,  and  was 
not  to  be  defrauded  of  any  part  of  it. 

"God  save  the  queen !"  he  shouted.  And  out  of  respect 
for  the  knight,  he  slipped  from  his  saddle  and  promptly  fell 
on  his  back  in  the  road. 

"Ay,  to  be  sure,  God  save  the  queen!"  echoed  Sir  An- 
thony, taking  off  his  hat  again.  "You  are  right,  man!" 
Then  he  hurried  on,  not  noticing  the  messenger's  mishap. 
The  tidings  he  had  heard  seemed  of  such  importance,  and 
he  was  so  anxious  to  tell  them  to  his  household — for  the 
greatest  men  have  weaknesses,  and  news  such  as  this  comes 
seldom  in  a  lifetime — that  he  strode  on  to  the  house,  and 
over  the  drawbridge  into  the  courtyard,  without  once  look- 
ing behind  him. 

He  loved  order  and  decent  observance.  But  there  are 
times  when  a  cat,  to  get  to  the  cream-pan,  will  wet  its  feet. 
He  stood  now  in  the  middle  of  the  courtyard,  and  raising 
his  voice,  shouted  for  his  daughter.  "Ho,  Petronilla!  do 
you  hear,  girl !  Father!  Father  Carey!  Martin  Luther! 
Baldwin!"  and  so  on,  until  half  the  household  were 
collected.  "Do  you  hear,  all  of  you?  The  queen  is  dead! 
God  rest  her  soul!" 

"Amen!"  said  Father  Carey,  as  became  him,  putting  in 
his  word  amid  the  wondering  silence  which  followed;  while 
Martin  Luther  and  Baldwin,  who  were  washing  themselves 
at  the  pump,  stood  with  their  heads  dripping  and  their 
mouths  agape. 

"Amen!"  echoed  the  knight.  "And  long  live  the  queen! 
Long  live  Queen  Elizabeth ! "  he  continued,  having  now  got 
his  formula  by  heart.  And  he  swung  his  hat. 

There  was  a  cheer,  a  fairly  loud  cheer.  But  there  was 
one  who  did  not  join  in  it,  and  that  was  Petronilla.  She, 
listening  at  her  lattice  upstairs,  began  at  once  to  think,  as 
was  her  habit  when  any  matter  great  or  small  fell  out, 
whether  this  would  affect  the  fortunes  of  a  certain  person 
far  away.  It  might,  it  might  not;  she  did  not  know.  But 
the  doubt  so  far  entertained  her  that  she  came  down  to  sup- 
per with  a  heightened  color,  not  thinkng  in  the  least,  poor 
girl,  that  the  event  might  have  dire  consequences  for  others 
almost  as  dear  to  her,  and  nearer  home. 


SIH  ANTHONY'S  PURPOSE.  251 

Every  year  since  his  sudden  departure  a  letter  from  Fran- 
cis Cludde  had  come  to  Colon ;  a  meager  letter,  which  had 
passed  through  many  hands,  and  reached  Sir  Anthony  now 
through  one  channel,  now  through  another.  The  knight 
grumbled  and  swore  over  these  letters,  which  never  con- 
tained an  address  to  which  an  answer  could  be  forwarded, 
nor  said  much,  save  that  the  writer  was  well  and  sent  his 
love  and  duty,  and  looked  to  return,  all  being  well.  But, 
meager  as  they  were,  and  loud  as  he  swore  over  them,  he 
put  them  religiously  away  in  an  oak-chest  in  his  parlor;  and 
another  always  put  away  for  her  share  something  else,  which 
was  invariably  inclosed — a  tiny  swallow's  feather.  The 
knight  never  said  anything  about  the  feather;  neither  asked 
the  meaning  of  its  presence,  nor  commented  upon  its 
absence  when  Petronilla  gave  him  back  the  letter.  But 
for  days  after  each  of  these  arrivals  he  would  look  much 
at  his  daughter,  would  follow  her  about  with  his  eyes, 
be  more  regular  in  bidding  her  attend  him  in  his  walk, 
and  more  particular  in  seeing  that  she  had  the  tidbits  of 
the  joint. 

For  Petronilla,  it  cannot  be  said,  though  I  think  in  after 
times  she  would  have  liked  to  make  some  one  believe  it,  that 
she  wasted  away.  But  she  did  take  a  more  serious  and 
thoughtful  air  in  these  days,  which  she  never,  God  bless 
her,  lost  afterward.  There  came  from  Wootton  Wawen  and 
from  Henley  in  Arden  and  from  Cookhill  gentlemen  of 
excellent  estate,  to  woo  her.  But  they  all  went  away  dis- 
consolate after  drinking  very  deeply  of  Sir  Anthony's  ale 
and  strong  waters.  And  some  wondered  that  the  good 
knight  did  not  roundly  take  the  jade  to  task  and  see  her 
settled. 

But  he  did  not;  so  possibly  even  in  these  days  he  had 
other  views.  I  have  been  told  that,  going  up  once  to  her 
little  chamber  to  seek  her,  he  found  a  very  singular  orna- 
ment suspended  inside  her  lattice.  It  was  no  other  than  a 
common  clay  house-martin's  nest.  But  it  was  so  deftly 
hung  in  a  netted  bag,  and  so  daintily  swathed  in  moss 
always  green,  and  the  Christmas  roses  and  snowdrops  and 
violets  and  daffodils  which  decked  it  in  turn  were  always  so 
pure  and  fresh  and  bright — as  the  knight  learned  by  more 
than  one  stealthy  visit  afterward — that,  coming  down  the 


25 2  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

steep  steps,  he  could  not  see  clearly,  and  stumbled  against 
a  cook-boy,  and  beat  him  soundly  for  getting  in  his  way. 

To  return,  however.  The  news  of  the  queen's  death  had 
scarcely  been  well  digested  at  Coton,  nor  the  mass  for  her 
soul,  which  Father  Carey  celebrated  with  much  devotion, 
been  properly  criticised,  before  another  surprise  fell  upon 
the  household.  Two  strangers  arrived,  riding  late  one  even- 
ing, and  rang  the  great  bell  while  all  were  at  supper.  Bald- 
win and  the  porter  went  to  see  what  it  was,  and  brought 
back  a  message  which  drew  the  knight  from  his  chair,  as  a 
terrier  draws  a  rat. 

"You  are  drunk!"  he  shouted,  purple  in  the  face,  and 
fumbling  for  the  stick  which  usually  leaned  against  his  seat 
ready  for  emergencies.  "How  dare  you  bring  cock-and- 
bull  stories  to  me?" 

"It  is  true  enough!"  muttered  Baldwin  sullenly:  a  stout, 
dour  man,  not  much  afraid  of  his  master,  but  loving  him 
exceedingly.  "I  knew  him  again  myself." 

Sir  Anthony  strode  firmly  out  of  the  room,  and  in  the 
courtyard  near  the  great  gate  found  a  man  and  a  woman 
standing  in  the  dusk.  He  walked  up  to  the  former  and 
looked  him  in  the  face.  "What  do  you  here?"  he  said,  in 
a  strange,  hard  voice. 

"I  want  shelter  fora  night  for  myself  and  my  wife;  a 
meal  and  some  words  with  you— no  more,"  was  the  answer. 
"Give  me  this,"  the  stranger  continued,  "which  every  idle 
passer-by  may  claim  at  Coton  End,  and  you  shall  see  no 
more  of  me,  Anthony." 

For  a  moment  the  knight  seemed  to  hesitate.  Then  he 
answered,  pointing  sternly  with  his  hand,  "There  is  the  hall 
and  supper.  Go  and  eat  and  drink.  Or,  stay!"  he 
resumed.  And  he  turned  and  gave  some  orders  to  Bald- 
win, who  went  swiftly  to  the  hall,  and  in  a  moment  came 
again.  "Now  go!  What  you  want  the  servants  will  pre- 
pare for  you." 

"I  want  speech  of  you,"  said  the  newcomer. 

Sir  Anthony  seemed  about  to  refuse,  but  thought  better 
of  it.  "You  can  come  to  my  room  when  you  have 
supped,"  he  said,  in  the  same  ungracious  tone,  speaking 
with  his  eyes  averted. 


SIR  ANTHONY'S  PURPOSE.  253 

"And  you — do  you  not  take  supper?" 

"I  have  finished,"  said  the  knight,  albeit  he  had  eaten 
little.  And  he  turned  on  his  heel. 

Very  few  of  those  who  sat  round  the  table  and  watched 
with  astonishment  the  tall  stranger's  entrance  knew  him 
again.  It  was  thirteen  years  since  Ferdinand  Cludde  had 
last  sat  there;  sitting  there  of  right.  And  the  thirteen  years 
had  worked  much  change  in  him.  When  he  found  that 
Petronilla,  obeying  her  father's  message,  had  disappeared, 
he  said  haughtily  that  his  wife  would  sup  in  her  own  room; 
and  with  a  flashing  eye  and  curling  lip,  bade  Baldwin  see  to 
it.  Then,  seating  himself  in  a  place  next  Sir  Anthony's,  he 
looked  down  the  board  at  which  all  sat  silent.  His  sar- 
castic eye,  his  high  bearing,  his  manner — the  manner  of  one 
who  had  gone  long  with  his  life  in  his  hand — awed  these 
simple  folk.  Then,  too,  he  was  a  Cludde.  Father  Carey 
was  absent  that  evening.  Martin  Luther  had  one  of  those 
turns,  half-sick,  half-sullen,  which  alternated  with  his  moods 
of  merriment;  and  kept  his  straw  pallet  in  some  corner  or 
other.  There  was  no  one  to  come  between  the  servants  and 
this  dark-visaged  stranger,  who  was  yet  no  stranger. 

He  had  his  way  and  his  talk  with  Sir  Anthony ;  the  latter 
lasting  far  into  the  night  and  producing  odd  results.  In 
the  first  place,  the  unbidden  guest  and  his  wife  stayed  on 
over  next  day,  and  over  many  days  to  come,  and  seemed 
gradually  to  grow  more  and  more  at  home.  The  knight 
began  to  take  long  walks  and  rides  with  his  brother,  and 
from  each  walk  and  ride  came  back  with  a  more  gloomy 
face  and  a  curler  manner.  Petronilla,  his  companion  of 
old,  found  herself  set  aside  for  her  uncle,  and  cast,  for 
society,  on  Ferdinand's  wife,  the  strange  young  woman  with 
the  brilliant  eyes,  whose  odd  changes  from  grave  to  gay 
rivaled  Martin  Luther's;  and  who  now  scared  the  girl  by 
wild  laughter  and  wilder  gibes,  and  now  moved  her  to  pity 
by  fits  of  weeping  or  dark  moods  of  gloom.  That  Uncle 
Ferdinand's  wife  stood  in  dread  of  her  husband,  Petronilla 
soon  learned,  and  even  began  to  share  this  dread,  to  shrink 
from  his  presence,  and  to  shut  herself  up  more  and  more 
closely  in  her  own  chamber. 

There  was  another,  too,  who  grew  to  be  troubled  about 
this  time,  and  that  was  Father  Carey.  The  good-natured, 


254  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

easy  priest  received  with  joy  and  thankfulness  the  news  that 
Ferdinand  Cludde  had  seen  his  errors  and  re-entered  the 
fold.  But  when  he  had  had  two  or  three  interviews  with 
the  convert,  his  brow,  too,  grew  clouded,  and  his  mind 
troubled.  He  learned  to  see  that  the  accession  of  the 
young  Protestant  queen  must  bear  fruit  for  which  he  had  a 
poor  appetite.  He  began  to  spend  many  hours  in  the 
church — the  church  which  he  had  known  all  his  life — and 
wrestled  much  with  himself — if  his  face  were  any  index  to 
his  soul.  Good,  kindly  man,  he  was  not  of  the  stuff  of 
which  martyrs  are  made;  and  to  be  forced,  pushed  on,  and 
goaded  into  becoming  a  martyr  against  one's  will — well,  the 
Father's  position  was  a  hard  one.  As  was  that  in  those 
days  of  many  a  good  and  learned  clergyman  bred  in  one 
church,  and  bidden  suddenly,  on  pain  of  losing  his  liveli- 
hood, if  not  his  life,  to  migrate  to  another. 

The  visitors  had  been  in  the  house  a  month — and  in  that 
month  an  observant  eye  might  have  noted  much  change, 
though  all  things  in  seeming  went  on  as  before — when  the 
queen's  orders  enjoining  all  priests  to  read  the  service,  or 
a  great  part  of  it,  in  English,  came  down,  being  fowarded 
by  the  sheriff  to  Father  Carey.  The  missive  arrived  on  a 
Friday,  and  had  been  indeed  long  expected. 

"What  shall  you  do?"  Ferdinand  asked  Sir  Anthony. 

"As  before!"  the  tall  old  man  replied,  gripping  his  staff 
more  firmly.  It  was  no  new  subject  between  them.  A 
hundred  times  they  had  discussed  it  already,  even  as  they 
were  now  discussing  it  on  the  terrace  by  the  fish-pool,  with 
the  church  which  adjoins  the  house  full  in  view  across  the 
garden.  "I  will  have  no  mushroom  faith  at  Coton  End," 
the  knight  continued  warmly.  "It  sprang  up  under  King 
Henry,  and  how  long  did  it  last?  A  year  or  two.  It  came 
in  again  under  King  Edward,  and  how  long  did  it  last? 
A  year  or  two.  So  it  will  be  again.  It  will  not  last,  Fer- 
dinand." 

"I  am  of  that  mind,"  the  younger  man  answered,  nod- 
ding his  head  gravely. 

"Of  course  you  are!"  Sir  Anthony  rejoined,  as  he  rested 
one  hand  on  the  sundial.  "For  ten  generations  our  fore- 
fathers have  worshiped  in  that  church  after  the  old  fashion 
— and  shall  it  be  changed  in  my  day?  Heaven  forbid! 


SIR  ANTHONY'S  PURPOSE.  255 

The  old  fashion  did  for  my  fathers;  it  shall  do  for  me. 
Why,  I  would  as  soon  expect  that  the  river  yonder  should 
flow  backward  as  that  the  church  which  has  stood  for  cen- 
turies, and  more  years  to  the  back  of  them  than  I  can  count, 
should  be  swept  away  by  these  Hot  Gospelers!  I  will  have 
none  of  them!  I  will  have  no  new-fangled  ways  at  Coton 
End!" 

"Well,  I  think  you  are  right!"  the  younger  brother  said. 
By  what  means  he  had  brought  the  knight  to  this  mind  with- 
out committing  himself  more  fully,  I  cannot  tell.  Yet  so 
it  was.  Ferdinand  showed  himself  always  the  cautious 
doubter.  Father  Carey  even  must  have  done  him  that  jus- 
tice. But — and  this  was  strange — the  more  doubtful  he 
showed  himself,  the  more  stubborn  grew  his  brother. 
There  are  men  so  shrewd  as  to  pass  off  stones  for  bread; 
and  men  so  simple-minded  as  to  take  something  less  than 
the  word  for  the  deed. 

"Why  should  it  come  incur  time?"  cried  Sir  Anthony 
fractiously. 

"Why  indeed?"  quoth  the  subtle  one. 

"I  say,  why  should  it  come  now?  I  have  heard  and  read 
of  the  sect  called  Lollards  who  gave  trouble  a  while  ago. 
But  they  passed,  and  the  church  stood.  So  will  these  Gos- 
pelers pass,  and  the  church  will  stand." 

"That  is  our  experience  certainly,"  said  Ferdinand. 

"I  hate  change!"  the  old  man  continued,  his  eyes  on  the 
old  church,  the  old  timbered  house — for  only  the  gateway 
tower  at  Coton  is  of  stone — the  old  yew  trees  in  the  church- 
yard. "I  do  not  believe  in  it,  and,  what  is  more,  I  will  not 
have  it.  As  my  fathers  have  worshiped,  so  will  I,  though 
it  cost  me  every  rood  of  land!  A  fig  for  the  Order  in 
Council!" 

"If  you  really  will  not  change  with  the  younger  genera- 
tions  " 

"I  will  not!"  replied  the  old  knight  sharply.  "There  is 
an  end  of  it!" 

To-day  the  Reformed  Church  in  England  has  seen  many 
an  anniversary,  and  grown  stronger  with  each  year;  and  we 
can  afford  to  laugh  at  Sir  Anthony's  arguments.  We  know 
better  than  he  did,  for  the  proof  of  the  pudding  is  in  the 
eating.  But  in  him  and  his  fellows,  who  had  only  the 


256  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

knowledge  of  their  own  day,  such  arguments  were  natural 
enough.  All  time,  all  experience,  all  history  and  custom 
and  habit,  as  known  to  them,  were  on  their  side.  Only  it 
was  once  again  to  be  the  battle  of  David  and  the  Giant  of 
Gath. 

Sir  Anthony  had  said,  "There  is  an  end  of  it!"  But  his 
companion,  as  he  presently  strolled  up  to  the  house  with  a 
smile  on  his  saturnine  face,  well  knew  that  this  was  only  the 
beginning  of  it.  This  was  Friday. 

On  the  Sunday,  a  rumor  of  the  order  having  gone  abroad, 
a  larger  congregation  than  usual  streamed  across  the  Chase 
to  church,  prepared  to  hear  some  new  thing.  They  were 
disappointed.  Sir  Anthony  stalked  in  as  of  old,  through 
the  double  ranks  of  people  waiting  at  the  door  to  receive 
him;  and  after  him  Ferdinand  and  his  wife,  and  Petronilla 
and  Baldwin,  and  every  servant  from  the  house  save  a  cook 
or  two  and  the  porter.  The  church  was  full.  Seldom  had 
such  a  congregation  been  seen  in  it.  But  all  passed  as  of 
old.  Father  Carey's  hand  shook,  indeed,  and  his  voice 
quavered;  but  he  went  through  the  ceremony  of  the  mass, 
and  all  was  done  in  Latin.  A  little  change  would  have  been 
pleasant,  some  thought.  But  no  one  in  this  country  place 
on  the  borders  of  the  forest  held  very  strong  views.  No 
bishop  had  come  heretic-hunting  to  Coton  End.  No  abbey 
existed  to  excite  dislike  by  its  extravagance  or  by  its  license 
or  by  the  swarm  of  ragged  idlers  it  supported.  Father 
Carey  was  the  most  harmless  and  kindest  of  men.  The  vil- 
lagers did  not  care  one  way  or  the  other.  To  them  Sir  An- 
thony was  king.  And  if  any  one  felt  tempted  to  interfere, 
the  old  knight's  face,  as  he  gazed  steadfastly  at  the  brass 
effigy  of  a  Cludde,  who  had  fallen  in  Spain  fighting  against 
the  Moors,  warned  the  meddler  to  be  silent. 

And  so  on  that  Sunday  all  went  well.  But  some  one  must 
have  told  tales,  for  early  in  the  week  there  came  a  strong 
letter  of  remonstrance  from  the  sheriff,  who  was  an  old  friend 
of  Sir  Anthony,  and  of  his  own  free  will,  I  fancy,  would  have 
winked.  But  he  was  committed  to  the  Protestants,  and 
bound  to  stand  or  fall  with  them.  The  choleric  knight  sent 
back  an  answer  by  the  same  messenger.  The  sheriff  replied, 
the  knight  rejoined — having  his  brother  always  at  his  elbow. 


SIR  ANTHONY'S  PURPOSE.  257 

The  upshot  of  the  correspondence  was  an  announcement  on 
the  part  of  the  sheriff  that  he  should  send  his  officers  to  the 
next  service,  to  see  that  the  queen's  order  was  obeyed; 
and  a  reply  on  the  part  of  Sir  Anthony -that  he  should  as 
certainly  put  the  men  in  the  duck-pond.  Some  inkling  of 
this  state  of  things  got  abroad,  and  spread  as  a  September 
fire  flies  through  a  wood;  so  that  there  was  like  to  be  such 
a  congregation  at  the  next  service  to  witness  the  trial  of 
strength,  as  would  throw  the  last  Sunday's  gathering  alto- 
gether into  the  shade. 

It  was  clear  at  last  that  Sir  Anthony  himself  did  not  think 
that  here  was  the  end  of  it.  For  on  that  Saturday  afternoon 
he  took  a  remarkable  walk.  He  called  Petronilla  after  din- 
ner, and  bade  her  get  her  hood  and  come  with  him.  And 
the  girl,  who  had  seen  so  little  of  her  father  in  the  last 
month,  and  who,  what  with  rumors  and  fears  and  surmises, 
was  eating  her  heart  out,  obeyed  him  with  joy.  It  was  a 
fine  frosty  day  near  the  close  of  December.  Sir  Anthony 
led  the  way  over  the  plank-bridge  which  crossed  the  moat 
in  the  rear  of  the  house,  and  tramped  steadily  through  the 
home  farm  toward  a  hill  called  the  Woodman's  View,  which 
marked  the  border  of  the  forest.  He  did  not  talk,  but 
neither  was  he  sunk  in  reverie.  As  he  entered  each  field  he 
stood  and  scanned  it,  at  times  merely  nodding,  at  times  smil- 
ing, or  again  muttering  a  few  words  such  as,  "The  three- 
acre  piece!  My  father  inclosed  it!"  or,  "That  is  where 
Ferdinand  killed  the  old  mare!"  or,  "The  best  land  for 
wheat  on  this  side  of  the  house!"  The  hill  climbed,  he 
stood  a  long  time  gazing  over  the  landscape,  eying  first  the 
fields  and  meadows  which  stretched  away  from  his  feet 
toward  the  house;  the  latter,  as  seen  from  this  point,  losing 
all  its  stateliness  in  the  mass  of  stacks  and  ricks  and  barns 
and  granaries  which  surrounded  it.  Then  his  eyes  traveled 
farther  in  the  same  line  to  the  broad  expanse  of  woodland — 
Colon  Chase — through  which  the  road  passed  along  a  ridge 
as  straight  as  an  arrow.  To  the  right  were  more  fields,  and 
here  and  there  amid  them  a  homestead  with  its  smaller  ring 
of  stacks  and  barns.  When  he  turned  to  the  left,  his  eyes, 
passing  over  the  shoulders  of  Barnt  Hill  and  Mill  Head 
Copse  and  Beacon  Hill,  all  bulwarks  of  the  forest,  followed 
the  streak  of  river  as  it  wound  away  toward  Stratford 


258  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

through  luscious  flood  meadows,  here  growing  wide,  and 
there  narrow,  as  the  woodland  advanced  or  retreated. 

"It  is  all  mine,"  he  said,  as  much  to  himself  as  to  the 
girl.  "It  is  all  Cludde  land  as  far  as  you  can  see." 

There  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  she  had  to  turn  away  to 
conceal  them.  Why,  she  hardly  knew.  For  he  said  noth- 
ing more,  and  he  walked  down  the  hill  dry-eyed.  But  all 
the  way  home  he  still  looked  sharply  about,  noting  this  or 
that,  as  if  he  were  bidding  farewell  to  the  old  familiar  ob- 
jects, the  spinneys  and  copses — ay,  and  the  very  gates  and 
gaps  and  the  hollow  trees  where  the  owls  built.  It  was  the 
saddest  and  most  pathetic  walk  the  girl  had  ever  taken. 
Yet  there  was  nothing  said. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

THE    LAST    MASS. 

E  north  wall  of  the  church  at  Coton  End  is  only  four 
X  paces  from  the  house,  the  church  standing  within  the 
moat.  Isolated  as  the  sacred  building,  therefore,  is  from 
the  outer  world  by  the  wide-spreading  Chase,  and  close- 
massed  with  the  homestead,  Sir  Anthony  had  some  excuse 
for  considering  it  as  much  a  part  of  his  demesne  as  the  mill 
or  the  smithy.  In  words  he  would  have  been  willing  to 
admit  a  distinction;  but  in  thought  I  fancy  he  lumped  it 
with  the  rest  of  his  possessions. 

It  was  with  a  lowering  eye  that  on  this  Sunday  morning  he 
watched  from  his  room  over  the  gateway  the  unusual  stream 
of  people  making  for  the  church.  Perchance  he  had  in  his 
mind  other  Sundays — Sundays  when  he  had  walked  out  at 
this  hour,  light  of  heart  and  kind  of  eye,  with  his  staff  in  his 
fist  arid  his  glove  dangling,  and  his  dog  at  his  heels;  and, 
free  from  care,  had  taken  pleasure  in  each  bonnet  doffed 
and  each  old  wife's  "God  bless  ye,  Sir  Anthony!"  Well, 
those  days  were  gone.  Now  the  rain  dripped  from  the 
eaves — for  a  thaw  had  come  in  the  night — and  the  bells,  that 
could  on  occasion  ring  so  cheerily,  sounded  sad  and  forlorn. 
His  daughter,  when  she  came,  according  to  custom,  bring- 
ing his  great  service-book,  could  scarcely  look  him  in  the 
face.  I  know  not  whether  even  then  his  resolution  to  dare 
all  might  not,  at  sound  of  a  word  from  her,  or  at  sight  of 
her  face,  have  melted  like  yesterday's  ice.  But  before  the 
word  could  be  spoken,  or  the  eyes  meet,  another  step  rang 
on  the  stone  staircase  and  brother  Ferdinand  entered. 

"They  are  here!"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "Six  of  them, 
Anthony,  and  sturdy  fellows,  as  all  Clopton's  men  are.  If 
you  do  not  think  your  people  will  stand  by  you " 

The  knight  fired  at  this  suggestion.  "What!"  he  burst 
out,  turning  from  the  window,  "if  Cludde  men  cannot  meet 


260  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

Clopton  men  the  times  are  indeed  gone  mad!  Make  way 
and  let  me  come!  Though  the  mass  be  never  said  again  in 
Coton  church,  it  shall  be  said  to-day!"  And  he  swore  a 
great  oath. 

He  strode  down  the  stairs  and  under  the  gateway,  where 
were  arranged,  according  to  the  custom  of  the  house  on  wet 
days,  all  the  servants,  with  Baldwin  and  Martin  Luther  at 
their  head.  The  knight  stalked  through  them  with  a  gloomy 
brow.  His  brother  followed  him,  a  faint  smile  flickering 
about  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  Then  came  Ferdinand's 
wife  and  Petronilla,  the  latter  with  her  hood  drawn  close 
about  her  face,  Anne  with  her  chin  in  the  air  and  her  eyes 
aglow.  "It  is  not  a  bit  of  a  bustle  will  searcher!"  Baldwin 
muttered,  as  he  fell  in  behind  her,  and  eyed  her  back  with 
no  great  favor. 

"No — so  long  as  it  does  not  touch  her,"  Martin  replied 
in  a  cynical  whisper.  "She  is  well  mated!  Well  mated 
and  ill  fated!  Ha!  ha!" 

"Silence,  fool,"  growled  his  companion  angrily.  "Is 
this  a  time  for  antics?" 

"Ay,  it  is!"  Martin  retorted  swiftly,  though  with  the 
same  caution.  "For  when  wise  men  turn  fools,  fools  are 
put  to  it  to  act  up  to  their  profession!  You  see,  brother?" 
And  he  deliberately  cut  a  caper.  His  eyes  were  glittering, 
and  the  nerves  on  one  side  of  his  face  twitched  oddly. 
Baldwin  looked  at  him,  and  muttered  that  Martin  was  going 
to  have  one  of  his  mad  fits.  What  had  grown  on  the  fool 
of  late? 

The  knight  reached  the  church  porch  and  passed  through 
the  crowd  which  awaited  him  there.  Save  for  its  unusual 
size  and  some  strange  faces  to  be  seen  on  its  skirts,  there 
was  no  indication  of  trouble.  He  walked,  tapping  his  stick 
on  the  pavement  a  little  more  loudly  than  usual,  to  his  place 
in  the  fr«nt  pew.  The  household,  the  villagers,  the  stran- 
gers, pressed  in  behind  him  until  every  seat  was  filled. 
Even  the  table  monument  of  Sir  Piers  Cludde,  which  stood 
lengthwise  in  the  aisle,  was  seized  upon,  and  if  the  two 
similar  monuments  which  stood  to  right  and  left  below  the 
chancel  steps  had  not  been  under  the  knight's  eyes,  they 
too  would  have  been  invaded.  Yet  all  was  done  decently 
and  in  order,  with  a  clattering  of  rustic  boots  indeed,  but 
no  scrambling  or  ill  words.  The  Clopton  men  were  there. 


THE  LAST  MASS.  261 

Baldwin  had  marked  them  well,  and  so  had  a  dozen  stout 
fellows,  sons  of  Sir  Anthony's  tenants.  But  they  behaved, 
discreetly,  and  amid  such  a  silence  as  Father  Carey  nevei 
remembered  to  have  faced,  he  began  the  Roman  service. 

The  December  light  fell  faintly  through  the  east  window 
on  the  Father  at  his  ministrations,  on  his  small  acolytes,  on 
the  four  Cludde  brasses  before  the  altar.  It  fell  everywhere 
— on  gray  dusty  walls  buttressed  by  gray  tombs  which  left 
but  a  narrow  space  in  the  middle  of  the  chancel.  The 
marble  crusader  to  the  left  matched  the  canopied  bed  of  Sir 
Anthony's  parents  on  the  right;  the  Abbess's  tomb  in  the 
next  row  faced  the  plainer  monument  of  Sir  Anthony's  wife, 
a  vacant  place  by  her  side  awaiting  his  own  effigy.  And 
there  were  others.  The  chancel  was  so  small — nay,  the 
church  too — so  small  and  old  and  gray  and  solid,  and  the 
tombs  were  so  massive,  that  they  elbowed  one  another. 
The  very  dust  which  rose  as  men  stirred  was  the  dust 
of  Cluddes.  Sir  Anthony's  brow  relaxed.  He  listened 
gravely  and  sadly. 

And  then  the  interruption  came.  '.'I  protest!"  a  rough 
voice  in  rear  of  the  crowd  cried  suddenly,  ringing  harshly 
and  strangely  above  the  Father's  accents  and  the  solemn 
hush.  "I  protest  against  this  service!" 

A  thrill  of  astonishment  ran  through  the  crowd,  and  all 
rose.  Every  man  in  the  church  turned  round,  Sir  Anthony 
among  the  first,  and  looked  in  the  direction  of  the  voice. 
Then  it  was  seen  that  the  Clopton  men  had  massed  them- 
selves about  the  door  in  the  southwest  corner — a  strong 
position,  whence  retreat  was  easy.  Father  Carey,  after  a 
momentary  glance,  went  on  as  if  he  had  not  heard;  but  his 
voice  shook,  and  all  still  waited  with  their  faces  turned 
toward  the  west  end. 

"I  protest  in  the  name  of  the  Queen!"  the  same  man 
cried  sharply,  while  his  fellows  raised  a  murmur  so  that  the 
priest's  voice  was  drowned. 

Sir  Anthony  stepped  into  the  aisle,  his  face  inflamed  with 
anger.  The  interruption  taking  place  there,  in  that  place, 
seemed  to  him  a  double  profanation. 

"Who  is  that  brawler?"  he  said,  his  hand  trembling  on 
his  staff;  and  all  the  old  dames  trembled  too.  "Let  him 
stand  out." 

The  sheriff's   spokesman  was  so  concealed  by  his  fel- 


262  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

lows  that  he  could  not  be  seen ;  but  he  answered  civilly 
enough. 

"I  am  no  brawler,"  he  said.  "I  only  require  the  law  to 
be  observed;  and  that  you  know,  sir.  I  am  here  on  behalf 
of  the  sheriff;  and  I  warn  all  present  that  a  continuation  of 
this  service  will  expose  them  to  grievous  pains  and  penalties. 
If  you  desire  it,  I  will  read  the  royal  order  to  prove  that  I 
do  not  speak  without  warrant." 

"Begone,  knave,  you  and  your  fellows!"  Sir  Anthony 
cried.  A  loyal  man  in  all  else,  and  the  last  to  deny  the 
queen's  right  or  title,  he  had  no  reasonable  answer  to  give, 
and  could  only  bluster.  "Begone,  do  you  hear?"  he 
repeated;  and  he  rapped  his  staff  on  the  pavement,  and 
then,  raising  it,  pointed  to  the  door. 

All  Coton  thought  the  men  must  go;  but  the  men,  per- 
haps, because  they  were  Clopton,  did  not  go.  And  Sir 
Anthony  had  not  so  completely  lost  his  head  as  to  proceed 
to  extremities  except  in  the  last  resort.  Affecting  to  con- 
sider the  incident  at  an  end,  he  stepped  back  into  his  pew 
without  waiting  to  see  whether  the  man  obeyed  him  or  no, 
and  resumed  his  devotions.  Father  Carey,  at  a  nod  from 
him,  went  on  with  the  interrupted  service. 

But  again  the  priest  had  barely  read  a  dozen  lines  before 
the  same  man  made  the  congregation  start  by  crying  loudly, 
"Stop!" 

"Go  on!"  shouted  Sir  Anthony  in  a  voice  of  thunder. 

"At  your  peril!"  retorted  the  intervener. 

"Go  on!"  from  Sir  Anthony  again. 

Father  Carey  stood  silent,  trembling  and  looking  from 
one  to  the  other.  Many  a  priest  of  his  faith  would  have 
risen  on  the  storm  and  in  the  spirit  of  Hildebrand  hurled 
his  church's  curse  at  the  intruder.  But  the  Father  was  not 
of  these,  and  he  hesitated,  fumbling  with  his  surplice  with 
his  feeble  white  hands.  He  feared  as  much  for  his  patron 
as  for  himself;  and  it  was  on  the  knight  that  his  eyes  finally 
rested.  But  Sir  Anthony's  brow  was  black;  he  got  no  com- 
fort there.  So  the  Father  took  courage  and  a  long  breath, 
opened  his  mouth  and  read  on,  amid  the  hush  of  sup- 
pressed excitement,  and  of  such  anger  and  stealthy  defiance 
as  surely  English  church  had  never  seen  before.  As  he 
read,  however,  he  gathered  courage,  and  his  voice  strength. 
The  solemn  words,  so  ancient,  so  familiar,  fell  on  the  still- 


THE  LAST  MASS.  263 

ness  of  the  church,  and  awed  even  the  sheriff's  men.  To 
the  surprise  of  nearly  every  one,  there  was  no  further  inter- 
ruption ;  the  service  ended  quietly. 

So  after  all  Sir  Anthony  had  his  way,  and  stalked  out, 
stiff  and  unbending.  Nor  was  there  any  falling  off,  but 
rather  an  increase  in  the  respect  with  which  his  people  rose, 
according  to  custom,  as  he  passed.  Yet  under  that  increase 
of  respect  lay  a  something  which  cut  the  old  man  to  the 
heart.  He  saw  that  his  dependents  pitied  him  while  they 
honored  him;  that  they  thought  him  a  fool  for  running  his 
head  against  a  stone  wall — as  Martin  Luther  put  it — even 
while  they  felt  that  there  was  something  grand  in  it  too. 

During  the  rest  of  the  day  he  went  about  his  usual  em- 
ployments, but  probably  with  little  zest.  He  had  done  what 
he  had  done  without  any  very  clear  idea  how  he  was 
going  to  proceed.  Between  his  loyalty  in  all  else  and  his 
treason  in  this,  it  would  not  have  been  easy  for  a  Solomon 
to  choose  a  consistent  path.  And  Sir  Anthony  was  no  Solo- 
mon. He  chose  at  last  to  carry  himself  as  if  there  were  no 
danger — as  if  the  thing  which  had  happened  were  unimpor- 
tant. He  ordered  no  change  and  took  no  precautions.  He 
shut  his  ears  to  the  whispering  which  went  on  among  the  ser- 
vants, and  his  eyes  to  the  watch  which  by  some  secret  order 
of  Baldwin  was  kept  upon  the  Ridgeway. 

It  was  something  of  a  shock  to  him,  therefore,  when  his 
daughter  came  to  him  after  breakfast  next  morning,  looking 
pale  and  heavy-eyed,  and,  breaking  through  the  respect 
which  had  hitherto  kept  her  silent,  begged  him  to  go  away. 

"To  go  away?"  he  cried.  He  rose  from  his  oak  chair 
and  glared  at  her.  Then  his  feelings  found  their  easiest 
vent  in  anger.  "What  do  you  mean,  girl?"  he  blustered, 
"Go  away?  Go  where?" 

But  she  did  not  quail.  Indeed  she  had  her  suggestion 
ready. 

"To  the  Mere  Farm  in  the  Forest,  sir,"  she  answered 
earnestly.  "They  will  not  look  for  you  there;  and  Martin 
says " 

"Martin?     The  fool!" 

His  face  grew  redder  and  redder.  This  was  too  much. 
He  loved  order  and  discipline ;  and  to  be  advised  in  such 
matters  by  a  woman  and  a  fool!  It  was  intolerable! 

"Go  to,  girl!"  he  cried,  fuming.     "I  wondered  where 


264  THE   STORY  OF  FR4NCIS  CLUDDE. 

you  had  got  your  tale  so  pat.  So  you  and  the  fool  have 
been  putting  your  heads  together!  Go!  Go  and  spin,  and 
leave  these  maters  to  men !  Do  you  think  that  my  brother, 
after  traveling  the  world  over,  has  not  got  a  head  on  his 
shoulders?  Do  you  think,  if  there  were  danger,  he  and  I 
would  not  have  foreseen  it?" 

He  waved  his  hand  and  turned  away  expecting  her  to  go. 
But  Petronilla  did  not  go.  She  had  something  else  to  say 
and  though  the  task  was  painful  she  was  resolved  to  say  it. 

"  Father, one  word, "she  murmured.    "About  my  uncle." 

' '  Well,  well !     What  about  him  ? ' ' 

"I  distrust  him,  sir,"  she  ventured,  in  a  low  tone,  her 
color  rising.  "The  servants  do  not  like  him.  They  fear 
him,  and  suspect  him  of  I  know  not  what." 

"The  servants ! "   Sir  Anthony  answered  in  an  awful  tone. 

Indeed  it  was  not  the  wisest  thing  she  could  have  said ; 
but  the  consequences  were  averted  by  a  sudden  alarm  and 
shouting  outside.  Half  a  dozen  voices,  shrill  or  threaten- 
ing, seemed  to  rise  at  once.  The  knight  strode  to  the  win- 
dow, but  the  noise  appeared  to  come,  not  from  the  Chase 
upon  which  it  looked,  but  from  the  courtyard  or  the  rear  of 
the  house.  Sir  Anthony  caught  up  his  stick,  and,  followed 
by  the  girl,  ran  down  the  steps.  He  pushed  aside  half  a 
dozen  women  who  had  likewise  been  attracted  by  the  noise, 
and  hastened  through  the  narrow  passage  which  led  to  the 
wooden  bridge  in  the  rear  of  the  buildings. 

Here,  in  the  close  on  the  far  side  of  the  moat,  a  strange 
scene  was  passing.  A  dozen  horsemen  were  grouped  in  the 
middle  of  the  field  about  a  couple  of  prisoners,  while  round 
the  gate  by  which  they  had  entered  stood  as  many  stout 
men  on  foot,  headed  by  Baldwin  and  armed  with  pikes  and 
staves.  These  seemed  to  be  taunting  the  cavaliers  and 
daring  them  to  come  on.  On  the  wooden  bridge  by  which 
the  knight  stood  were  half  a  dozen  of  the  servants,  also 
armed.  Sir  Anthony  recognized  in  the  leading  horseman 
Sir  Philip  Clopton,  and  in  the  prisoners  Father  Carey  and 
one  of  the  woodmen ;  and  in  a  moment  he  comprehended 
what  had  happened. 

The  sheriff,  in  the  most  unneighborly  manner,  instead  of 
challenging  his  front  door,  had  stolen  up  to  the  rear  of  the 
house,  and,  without  saying  with  your  leave  or  by  your  leave, 
had  snapped  up  the  poor  priest,  who  happened  to  be  wan- 


THE  LAST  MASS.  265 

dcring  in  that  direction.  Probably  he  had  intended  to  force 
an  entrance ;  but  he  had  laid  aside  the  plan  when  he  saw 
his  only  retreat  menaced  by  the  watchful  Baldwin,  who 
was  not  to  be  caught  napping.  The  knight  took  all  this  in 
at  a  glance,  and  his  gorge  rose  as  much  at  the  Clopton  men's 
trick  as  at  the  danger  in  which  Father  Carey  stood.  So  he 
lost  his  head,  and  made  matters  worse.  "Who  are  these 
villains,"  he  cried  in  a  rage,  his  face  aflame,  "who  come 
attacking  men's  houses  in  time  of  peace?  Begone,  or  I  will 
have  at  ye!" 

"Sir  Anthony!"  Clopton  cried,  interrupting  him,  "in 
Heaven's  name  do  not  carry  the  thing  farther!  Give  me 
way  in  the  Queen's  name,  and  I  will " 

What  he  would  do  was  never  known,  for  at  that  last  word, 
away  at  the  house,  behind  Sir  Anthony,  there  was  a  puff  of 
smoke,  and  down  went  the  sheriff  headlong,  horse  and  man, 
while  the  report  of  an  arquebuse  rang  dully  round  the  build- 
ings. The  knight  gazed  horrified;  but  the  damage  was 
done  and  could  not  be  undone.  Nay,  more,  the  Coton 
men  took  the  sound  for  a  signal.  With  a  shout,  before  Sir 
Anthony  could  interfere,  they  made  a  dash  for  the  group  of 
horsemen.  The  latter,  uncertain  and  hampered  by  the  fall 
of  their  leader,  who  was  not  hit,  but  was  stunned  beyond 
giving  orders,  did  the  best  they  could.  They  let  their  pris- 
oners go  with  a  curse,  and  then,  raising  Sir  Philip  and  form- 
ing a  rough  line,  they  charged  toward  the  gate  by  which  they 
had  entered. 

The  footmen  stood  the  brunt  gallantly,  and  for  a  moment 
the  sharp  ringing  of  quarter-staves  and  the  shivering  of 
steel  told  of  as  pretty  a  combat  as  ever  took  place  on  level 
sward  in  full  view  of  an  English  home.  The  spectators 
could  see  Baldwin  doing  wonders.  His  men  backed  him  up 
bravely.  But  in  the  end  the  impetus  of  the  horses  told,  the 
footmen  gave  way  and  fled  aside,  and  the  strangers  passed 
them.  A  little  more  skirmishing  took  place  at  the  gateway, 
Sir  Anthony's  men  being  deaf  to  all  his  attempts  to  call  them 
off;  and  then  the  Clopton  horse  got  clear,  and,  shaking 
their  fists  and  vowing  vengeance,  rode  off  toward  the  forest. 
They  left  two  of  their  men  on  the  field,  however,  one  with 
a  broken  arm  and  one  with  a  shattered  knee-cap ;  while  the 
house  party,  on  their  side,  beside  sundry  knocks  and  bruises, 


266  THE   STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

could  show  one  deep  sword-cut,  a  broken  wrist,  and  half  a 
dozen  nasty  wounds. 

"My  poor  little  girl!"  Sir  Anthony  whispered  to  himself, 
as  he  gazed  with  scared  eyes  at  the  prostrate  men  and  the 
dead  horse,  and  comprehended  what  had  happened.  "This 
is  a  hanging  business!  In  arms  against  the  Queen!  What 
am  I  to  do?"  And  as  he  went  back  to  the  house  in  a  kind 
of  stupor,  he  muttered  again,  "My  little  girl!  my  poor 
little  girl!" 

I  fancy  that  in  this  terrible  crisis  he  looked  to  get  support 
and  comfort  from  his  brother — that  old  campaigner,  who 
had  seen  so  many  vicissitudes  and  knew  by  heart  so  many 
shifts.  But  Ferdinand,  though  he  thought  the  event  un- 
lucky, had  little  to  say  and  less  to  suggest;  and  seemed, 
indeed,  to  have  become  on  a  sudden  flaccid  and  lukewarm. 
Sir  Anthony  felt  himself  thrown  on  his  own  resources. 
"Who  fired  the  shot?"  he  asked,  looking  about  the  room  in 
a  dazed  fashion.  "It  was  that  which  did  the  mischief,"  he 
continued,  forgetting  his  own  hasty  challenge. 

"I  think  it  must  have  been  Martin  Luther,"  Ferdinand 
answered. 

But  Martin  Luther,  when  he  was  accused,  denied  this 
stoutly.  He  had  been  so  far  along  the  Ridgeway,  he  said, 
that  though  he  had  returned  at  once  on  hearing  the  shot 
fired,  he  had  arrived  too  late  for  the  fight.  The  fool's 
stomach  for  a  fight  was  so  well  known  that  this  seemed 
probable  enough,  and  though  some  still  suspected  him,  the 
origin  of  the  unfortunate  signal  was  never  clearly  deter- 
mined, though  in  after  days  shrewd  guesses  were  made  by 
some. 

For  a  few  hours  it  seemed  as  if  Sir  Anthony  had  sunk 
into  his  former  state  of  indecision.  But  when  Petronilla 
came  again  to  him  soon  after  noon  to  beg  him  to  go  into 
hiding,  she  found  his  mood  had  altered.  "Go  to  the  Mere 
Farm?"  he  said,  not  angrily  now,  but  firmly  and  quietly. 
"No,  girl,  I  cannot.  I  have  been  in  fault,  and  I  must  stay 
and  pay  for  it.  If  I  left  these  poor  fellows  to  bear  the 
brunt,  I  could  never  hold  up  my  head  again.  But  do  you 
go  now  and  tell  Baldwin  to  come  to  me." 

She  went  and  told  the  stern,  down-looking  steward,  and 
he  came  up. 

"Baldwin,"  said  the  knight  when  the  door  was  shut,  and 
the  two  were  alone,  "you  are  to  dismiss  to  their  homes  all 


THE  LAST  MASS.  267 

the  tenants — who  have  indeed  been  called  out  without  my 
orders.  Bid  them  go  and  keep  the  peace,  and  I  hope  they 
will  not  be  molested.  For  you  and  Father  Carey,  you  must 
go  into  hiding.  The  Mere  Farm  will  be  best." 

"And  what  of  you,  Sir  Anthony?"  the  steward  asked, 
amazed  at  this  act  of  folly. 

"I  shall  remain  here,"  the  knight  replied  with  dignity. 

"You  will  be  taken,"  said  Baldwin,  after  a  pause. 

"Very  well,"  said  the  knight. 

The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  was  silent. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Sir  Anthony  in  anger. 

"Why,  just  that  I  cannot  do  it,"  Baldwin  answered, 
glowering  at  him  with  a  flush  on  his  dark  cheek.  "That  is 
what  I  mean.  Let  the  priest  go.  I  cannot  go,  and  will 
not." 

"Then  you  will  be  hanged!"  quoth  the  knight  warmly. 
"You  have  been  in  arms  against  the  Queen,  you  fool!  You 
will  be  hanged  as  sure  as  you  stay  here!" 

"Then  I  shall  be  hanged,"  replied  the  steward  sullenly. 
"There  never  was  a  Cludde  hanged  yet  without  one  to  keep 
him  company.  To  hear  of  it  would  make  my  grandsire  turn 
in  his  grave  out  there.  I  dare  not  do  it,  Sir  Anthony,  and 
that  is  the  fact.  But  for  the  rest  I  will  do  as  you  bid  me." 

And  he  had  his  way.  But  never  had  evening  fallen  more 
strangely  and  sadly  at  Colon  before.  The  rain  pattered 
drearily  in  the  courtyard.  The  drawbridge,  by  Baldwin's 
order,  had  been  pulled  up,  and  the  planks  over  the  moat  in 
the  rear  removed. 

"They  shall  not  steal  upon  us  again!"  he  muttered. 
"And  if  we  must  surrender,  they  shall  see  we  do  it  will- 
ingly." 

The  tenants  had  gone  to  their  homes  and  their  wives. 
Only  the  servants  remained.  They  clustered,  solemn  and 
sorrowful,  about  the  hearth  in  the  great  hall,  starting  if  a 
dog  howled  without  or  a  coal  flew  from  the  fire  within.  Sir 
Anthony  remained  brooding  in  his  own  room,  Petronilla 
sitting  beside  him  silent  and  fearful,  while  Ferdinand  and 
his  wife  moved  restlessly  about,  listening  to  the  wind.  But 
the  evening  and  the  night  wore  peacefully  away,  and  so,  to 
the  surprise  of  everybody,  did  the  next  day  and  the  next. 
Could  the  sheriff  be  going  to  overlook  the  matter?  Alas! 
on  the  third  day  the  doubt  was  resolved.  Two  or  three 
boys,  who  had  been  sent  out  as  scouts,  came  in  with  news 


268  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

that  there  was  a  strong  watch  set  on  the  Ridgeway,  that  the 
paths  through  the  forest  were  guarded,  that  bodies  of  armed 
men  were  arriving  in  the  neighboring  villages,  and  that 
soldiers  had  been  demanded — or  so  it  was  said — from  War- 
wick and  Worcester,  and  even  from  a  place  as  far  away  as 
Oxford.  Probably  it  was  only  the  sheriff's  prudence  which 
had  postponed  the  crisis ;  and  now  it  had  come.  The  net 
was  drawn  all  round.  As  the  day  closed  in  on  Colon  and 
the  sun  set  angrily  among  the  forest  trees,  the  boys'  tale, 
which  grew  no  doubt  in  the  telling,  passed  from  one  to 
another,  and  men  swore  and  looked  out  of  window,  and 
women  wept  in  corners.  In  the  Tower-room  Sir  Anthony 
sat  awaiting  the  summons,  and  wondered  what  he  could  to 
save  his  daughter  from  possible  rudeness,  or  even  hurt,  at 
the  hands  of  these  strangers. 

There  was  one  man  missing  from  hall  and  kitchen,  but 
few  in  the  suspense  noticed  his  absence.  The  fool  had 
heard  the  boys'  story,  and,  unable  to  remain  inactive  under 
such  excitement,  he  presently  stole  off  in  the  dusk  to  the 
rear  of  the  house.  Here  he  managed  to  cross  the  moat  by 
means  of  a  plank,  which  he  then  drew  over  and  hid  in  the 
grass.  This  quietly  managed — Baldwin,  be  it  said,  had 
strictly  forbidden  any  one  to  leave  the  house — Martin  made 
off  with  a  grim  chuckle  toward  the  forest,  and  following  the 
main  track  leading  toward  Wootton  Wawen,  presently  came 
among  the  trees  upon  a  couple  of  sentinels.  They  heard 
him,  saw  him  indistinctly,  and  made  a  rush  for  him.  But 
this  was  just  the  sport  Martin  liked,  and  the  fun  he  had  come 
for.  His  quick  ear  apprised  him  of  the  danger,  and  in  a 
second  he  was  lost  in  the  underwood,  his  mocking  laugh  and 
shrill  taunts  keeping  the  poor  men  on  the  shudder  for  the 
next  ten  minutes.  Then  the  uncanny  accents  died  away, 
and,  satisfied  with  his  sport  and  the  knowledge  he  had 
gained,  the  fool  made  for  home.  As  he  sped  quickly  across 
the  last  field,  however,  he  was  astonished  by  the  sight  of  a 
dark  figure  in  the  very  act  of  launching  his — Martin's — 
plank  across  the  moat. 

"Ho,  ho!"  the  fool  muttered  in  a  fierce  undertone. 
"That  is  it,  is  it?  And  only  one!  If  they  will  come  one 
by  one,  like  the  plums  in  the  kitchen  porridge,  I  shall  make 
a  fine  meal!" 

He    stood    back,    crouching  down   on   the    grass,    and 


THE  LAST  MASS.  269 

watched  the  unknown,  his  eyes  glittering.  The  stranger 
was  a  tall,  big  fellow,  a  formidable  antagonist.  But  Martin 
cared  nothing  for  that.  Had  he  not  his  long  knife,  as  keen 
as  his  wits — when  they  were  at  home,  which  was  not  always. 
He  drew  it  out  now,  and  under  cover  of  the  darkness  crept 
nearer  and  nearer,  his  blood  glowing  pleasantly,  though  the 
night  was  cold.  How  lucky  it  was  he  had  come  out!  He 
could  hardly  restrain  the  "Ho,  ho!"  which  rose  to  his  lips. 
He  meant  to  leap  upon  the  man  on  this  side  of  the  water, 
that  there  might  be  no  tell-tale  traces  on  the  farther  bank. 

But  the  stranger  was  too  quick  for  him  in  this.  He  got 
his  bridge  fixed,  and  began  to  cross  before  Martin  could- 
crawl  near  enough.  As  he  crossed,  however,  his  feet  made 
a  slight  noise  on  the  plank,  and  under  cover  of  it  the  fool 
rose  and  ran  forward,  then  followed  him  over  with  the 
stealthiness  of  a  cat.  And  like  a  cat  too,  the  moment  the 
stranger's  foot  touched  the  bank,  Martin  sprang  on  him 
with  his  knife  raised — sprang  on  him  silently,  with  his  teeth 
grinning  and  his  eyes  aflame. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

AWAITING    THE   BLOW. 

A  MOMENT  later  the  servants  in  the  hall  heard  a  scream 
£\  — a  scream  of  such  horror  and  fear  that  they  scarcely 
recognized  a  human  voice  in  the  sound.  They  sprang  to 
their  feet  scared  and  trembling,  and  for  a  few  seconds 
looked  into  one  another's  faces.  Then,  as  curiosity  got  the 
upper  hand,  the  boldest  took  the  lead  and  all  hurried  pell- 
mell  to  the  door,  issuing  in  a  mob  into  the  courtyard,  where 
Ferdinand  Cludde,  who  happened  to  be  near  and  had  also 
heard  the  cry,  joined  them.  "Where  was  it,  Baldwin?" 
he  exclaimed. 

"At  the  back,  I  think,"  the  steward  answered.  He  alone 
had  had  the  coolness  to  bring  out  a  lantern,  and  he  now  led 
the  way  toward  the  rear  of  the  house.  Sure  enough,  close 
to  the  edge  of  the  moat,  they  found  Martin,  stooping  with 
his  hands  on  his  knees,  a  great  wound,  half  bruise,  half  cut, 
upon  his  forehead.  "Whatisit?"  Ferdinand  cried  sharply. 
"Who  did  it,  man?" 

Baldwin  had  already  thrown  his  light  on  the  fool's  face, 
and  Martin,  seeming  to  become  conscious  of  their  presence, 
looked  at  them,  but  in  a  dazed  fashion.  "What?"  he  mut- 
tered, "what  is  what?" 

By  this  time  nearly  every  one  in  the  house  had  hurried  to 
the  spot;  among  them  not  only  Petronilla,  clinging  to  her 
father's  arm,  but  Mistress  Anne,  her  face  pale  and  gloomy, 
and  half  a  dozen  womenfolk  who  clutched  one  another 
tightly,  and  screamed  at  regular  intervals. 

"What  is  it?"  Baldwin  repeated  roughly,  laying  his  hand 
on  Martin's  arm  and  slightly  shaking  him.  "Come,  who 
struck  you,  man?" 

"I  think,"  the  fool  answered  slowly,  gulping  down  some- 
thing and  turning  a  dull  eye  on  the  group;  "a — a  swallow 
flew  by — and  hit  me!" 

They  shrank  away  from  him  instinctively  and  some  crossed 
themselves.  "He  is  in  one  of  his  mad  fits,"  Baldwin  mut- 
tered. Still  the  steward  showed  no  fear.  "A  swallow, 
man!"  he  cried  aloud.  "Come,  talk  sense.  There  are  no 
swallows  flying  at  this  time  of  year.  And  if  there  were, 


AWAITING  THE  BLOW.  271 

they  do  not  fly  by  night,  nor  give  men  wounds  like  that. 
What  was  it?  Out  with  it,  now.  Do  you  not  see,  man,"  he 
added,  giving  Martin  an  impatient  shake,  "that  Sir  An- 
thony is  waiting?" 

The  fool  nodded  stupidly.  "A  swallow,"  he  muttered. 
"Ay,  'twas  a  swallow,  a  great  big  swallow.  I — I  nearly 
put  my  foot  on  him." 

"And  he  flew  up  and  hit  you  in  the  face?"  Baldwin  said, 
with  huge  contempt  in  his  tone. 

Martin  accepted  the  suggestion  placidly.  "Ay,  'twas  so. 
A  great  big  swallow,  and  he  flew  in  my  face,"  he  repeated. 

Sir  Anthony  looked  at  him  compassionately.  "Poor  fel- 
low!" he  said;  "Baldwin,  see  to  him.  He  has  had  one  of 
his  fits  and  hurt  himself." 

"I  never  knew  him  hurt  himself"  Baldwin  muttered 
darkly. 

"Let  somebody  see  to  him,"  the  knight  said,  disregarding 
the  interruption.  "And  now  come,  Petronilla.  Why — 
where  has  the  girl  gone?" 

Not  far.  Only  round  to  the  other  side  of  him,  that  she 
might  be  a  little  nearer  to  Martin.  The  curiosity  in  the 
other  women's  faces  was  a  small  thing  in  comparison  with 
the  startled,  earnest  look  in  hers.  She  gazed  at  the  man 
with  eyes  not  of  affright,  but  of  eager,  avid  questioning, 
while  through  her  parted  lips  her  breath  came  in  gasps. 
Her  cheek  was  red  and  white  by  turns,  and,  for  her  heart — 
well,  it  had  seemed  to  stand  still  a  moment,  and  now  was 
beating  like  the  heart  of  some  poor  captured  bird  held  in  the 
hand.  She  did  not  seem  to  hear  her  father  speak  to  her, 
and  he  had  to  touch  her  sleeve.  Then  she  started  as  though 
she  were  awakening  from  a  dream,  and  followed  him  sadly 
into  the  house. 

Sadly,  and  yet  there  was  a  light  in  her  eyes  which  had  not 
been  there  five  minutes  before.  A  swallow?  A  great  big 
swallow  ?  And  this  was  December,  when  the  swallows  were 
at  the  bottom  of  the  horse-ponds.  She  only  knew  of  one 
swallow  whose  return  was  possible  in  winter.  But  then  that 
one  swallow — ay,  though  the  snow  should  lie  inches  deep 
in  the  chase,  and  the  water  should  freeze  in  her  room — 
would  make  a  summer  for  her.  Could  it  be  that  one? 
Could  it  be?  Petronilla's  heart  was  beating  so  loudly  as  she 


«7 2  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

went  upstairs  after  her  father,  that  she  wondered  he  did  not 
hear  it. 

The  group  left  round  Martin  gradually  melted  away. 
Baldwin  was  the  only  man  who  could  deal  with  him  in  his 
mad  fits,  and  the  other  servants,  with  a  shudder  and  a  back- 
ward glance,  gladly  left  him  to  the  steward.  Mistress  Anne 
had  gone  in  some  time.  Only  Ferdinand  Cludde  remained, 
and  he  stood  a  little  apart,  and  seemed  more  deeply  engaged 
in  listening  for  any  sound  which  might  betoken  the  sheriff's 
approach  than  in  hearkening  to  their  conversation.  Listen 
as  he  might  he  would  have  gained  little  from  the  latter,  for 
it  was  made  up  entirely  of  scolding  on  one  side  and  stupid 
reiteration  on  the  other.  Yet  Ferdinand,  ever  suspicious 
and  on  his  guard,  must  have  felt  some  interest  in  it,  for  he 
presently  called  the  steward  to  him.  "Is  he  more  fool  or 
knave?"  he  muttered,  pointing  under  hand  at  Martin,  who 
stood  in  the  gloom  a  few  paces  away. 

Baldwin  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  remained  silent. 
"What  happened?  What  is  the  meaning  of  it  all?"  Ferdi- 
nand persisted,  his  keen  eyes  on  the  steward's  face.  "Did 
he  do  it  himself?  Or  who  did  it?" 

Baldwin  turned  slowly  and  nodded  toward  the  moat.  "I 
expect  you  will  find  him  who  did  it  there,"  he  said  grimly. 
"I  never  knew  a  man  save  Sir  Anthony  or  Master  Francis 
hit  Martin  yet,  but  he  paid  for  it.  And  when  his  temper  is 
up,  he  is  mad,  or- as  good  as  mad;  and  better  than  two 
sane  men!" 

"He  is  a  dangerous  fellow,"  Ferdinand  said  thoughtfully, 
shivering  a  little.  It  was  unlike  him  to  shiver  and  shake. 
But  the  bravest  have  their  moods. 

"Dangerous?"  the  steward  answered.  "Ay,  he  is  to 
some,  and  sometimes." 

Ferdinand  Cludde  looked  sharply  at  the  speaker,  as  if  he 
suspected  him  of  a  covert  sneer.  But  Baldwin's  gloomy 
face  betrayed  no  glint  of  intelligence  or  amusement,  and  the 
knight's  brother,  reassured  and  yet  uneasy,  turned  on  his 
heel  and  went  into  the  house,  meeting  at  the  door  a  servant 
who  came  to  tell  him  that  Sir  Anthony  was  calling  for  him. 
Baldwin  Moor,  left  alone,  stood  a  moment  thinking,  and 
then  turned  to  speak  to  Martin.  But  Martin  was  gone,  and 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 


AWAITING  THE  BLOW.  273 

The  lights  in  the  hall  windows  twinkled  cheerily,  and  the 
great  fire  cast  its  glow  half  way  across  the  courtyard,  as 
lights  and  fire  had  twinkled  and  glowed  at  Coton  End  on 
many  a  night  before.  But  neither  in  hall  nor  chamber  was 
there  any  answering  merriment.  Baldwin,  coming  in, 
cursed  the  servants  who  were  in  his  way,  and  the  men 
moved  meekly  and  without  retort,  taking  his  oaths  for  what 
they  were — a  man's  tears.  The  women  folk  sat  listening 
pale  and  frightened,  and  one  or  two  of  the  grooms,  those 
who  had  done  least  in  the  skirmish,  had  visions  of  a  tree 
and  a  rope,  and  looked  sickly.  The  rest  scowled  and 
blinked  at  the  fire,  or  kicked  up  a  dog  if  it  barked  in  its 
sleep. 

"Hasn't  Martin  come  in?"  Baldwin  growled  presently, 
setting  his  heavy  wet  boot  on  a  glowing  log,  which  hissed 
and  sputtered  under  it.  "Where  is  he?" 

"Don't  know!"  one  of  the  men  took  on  himself  to 
answer.  "He  did  not  come  in  here." 

"I  wonder  what  he  is  up  to  now?"  Baldwin  exclaimed, 
with  gloomy  irritation ;  for  which,  under  the  circumstances, 
he  had  ample  excuse.  He  knew  that  resistance  was  utterly 
hopeless,  and  could  only  make  matters  worse,  and  twist  the 
rope  more  tightly  about  his  neck,  to  put  the  thought  as  he 
framed  it.  The  suspicion,  therefore,  that  this  madman — 
for  such  in  his  worst  fits  the  fool  became — might  be 
hanging  round  the  place  in  dark  corners,  doing  what 
deadly  mischief  he  could  to  the  attacking  party,  was  not  a 
pleasant  one. 

A  gray-haired  man  in  the  warmest  nook  by  the  fire  seemed 
to  read  his  thoughts.  "There  is  one  in  the  house,"  he 
said  slowly  and  oracularly,  his  eyes  on  Baldwin's  boot, 
"whom  he  has  just  as  good  a  mind  to  hurt,  has  our  Martin, 
as  any  of  them  Clopton  men.  Ay,  that  has  he,  Master 
Baldwin." 

"And  who  is  that,  gaffer?"  Baldwin  asked  contemptu- 
ously. 

But  the  old  fellow  turned  shy.  "Well,  it  is  not  Sir  An- 
thony," he  answered,  nodding  his  head,  and  stooping  for- 
ward to  caress  his  toasting  shins.  '  'Be  you  very  sure  of  that. 
Nor  the  young  mistress,  nor  the  young  master  as  was,  nor 
the  new  lady  that  came  a  month  ago.  No,  nor  it  is  not 
you,  Master  Baldwin." 


274  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

"Then  who  is  it?"  cried  the  steward  impatiently. 

"He  is  shrewd,  is  Martin — when  the  saints  have  not  got 
their  backs  to  him,"  said  the  old  fellow  slyly. 

"Who  is  it?"  thundered  the  steward,  well  used  to  this 
rustic  method  of  evasion.  "Answer,  you  dolt!" 

But  no  answer  came,  and  Baldwin  never  got  one ;  for  at 
this  moment  a  man  who  had  been  watching  in  front  of  the 
house  ran  in. 

"They  are  here!"  he  cried,  "a  good  hundred  of  them, 
and  torches  enough  for  St.  Anthony's  Eve.  Get  you  to  the 
gate,  porter,  Sir  Anthony  is  calling  for  you.  Do  you  hear?" 

There  was  a  great  uprising,  a  great  clattering  of  feet  and 
barking  of  dogs,  and  some  wailing  among  the  women.  As 
the  messenger  finished  speaking,  a  harsh  challenge  which 
penetrated  even  the  courtyard  arose  from  many  voices  with- 
out, and  was  followed  by  the  winding  of  a  horn.  This 
sufficed.  All  hurried  with  one  accord  into  the  court,  where 
the  porter  looked  to  Baldwin  for  instructions. 

"Hold  a  minute!"  cried  the  steward,  silencing  the  loud- 
est hound  by  a  sound  kick,  and  disregarding  Sir  Anthony's 
voice,  which  came  from  the  direction  of  the  gateway.  "Let 
us  see  if  they  are  at  the  back  too." 

He  ran  through  the  passage  and,  emerging  on  the  edge  of 
the  moat,  was  at  once  saluted  by  a  dozen  voices  warning  him 
back.  There  were  a  score  of  dark  figures  standing  in  the 
little  close  where  the  fight  had  taken  place.  "Right,"  said 
Baldwin  to  himself.  "Needs  must  when  the  old  gentleman 
drives!  Only  I  thought  I  would  make  sure." 

He  ran  back  at  once,  nearly  knocking  down  Martin,  who 
with  a  companion  was  making,  but  at  a  slower  pace,  for  the 
front  of  the  house. 

"Well,  old  comrade!"  cried  the  steward,  smiting  the  fool 
on  the  back  as  he  passed,  "you  are  here,  are  you?  I  never 
thought  that  you  and  I  would  be  in  at  our  own  deaths!" 

He  did  not  notice,  in  the  wild  humor  which  had  seized 
him,  who  Martin's  companion  was,  though  probably  at  an- 
other time  it  would  have  struck  him  that  there  was  no  one 
in  the  house  quite  so  tall.  He  sped  on  with  scarcely  a 
glance,  and  in  a  moment  was  under  the  gateway,  where  Sir 
Anthony  was  soundly  rating  everybody,  and  particularly  the 
porter,  who  with  his  key  in  the  door  found  or  affected  to 
find  the  task  of  turning  it  a  difficult  one.  As  the  steward 


AWAITING  THE  BLOW.  275 

came  up,  however,  the  big  doors  at  some  sign  from  him 
creaked  on  their  hinges,  and  the  knight,  his  staff  in  his  hand, 
and  the  servants  clustering  behind  him  with  lanterns,  walked 
forward  a  pace  or  two  to  the  end  of  the  bridge,  bearing  him- 
self with  some  dignity. 

"Who  disturbs  us  at  this  hour?"  he  cried,  peering  across 
the  moat,  and  signing  to  Baldwin  to  hold  up  his  large  lan- 
tern, since  the  others,  uncertain  of  their  reception,  had  put 
out  their  torches.  By  its  light  he  and  those  behind  him 
could  make  out  a  group  of  half  a  dozen  figures  a  score  of 
yards  away,  while  in  support  of  these  there  appeared  a  bow- 
shot off,  and  still  in  the  open  ground,  a  clump  of,  it  might 
be,  a  hundred  men.  Beyond  all  lay  the  dark  line  of  trees, 
above  which  the  moon,  new-risen,  was  sailing  through  a 
watery  wrack  of  clouds.  "Who  are  ye?"  the  knight  re- 
peated. 

"Are  you  Sir  Anthony  Cludde?"  came  the  answer. 

"lam." 

"Then  in  the  Queen's  name,  Sir  Anthony,"  the  leader 
of  the  troop  cried  solemnly,  "I  call  on  you  to  surrender. 
I  hold  a  warrant  for  your  arrest,  and  also  for  the  arrest  of 
James  Carey,  a  priest,  and  Baldwin  Moor,  who,  I  am  told, 
is  your  steward.  I  am  backed  by  forces  which  it  will  be 
vain  to  resist." 

"Are  you  Sir  Phifip  Clopton?"  the  knight  asked.  For 
at  that  distance  and  in  that  light  it  was  impossible  to  be  sure. 

"I  am,"  the  sheriff  answered  earnestly.  "And,  as  a 
friend,  I  beg  you,  Sir  Anthony,  to  avoid  useless  bloodshed 
and  further  cause  for  offense.  Sir  Thomas  Greville,  the 
governor  of  Warwick  Castle,  and  Colonel  Bridgewater  are 
with  me.  I  implore  you,  my  friend,  to  surrender,  and  I 
will  do  you  what  gocd  offices  I  may." 

The  knight,  as  we  know,  had  made  up  his  mind.  And 
yet  for  a  second  he  hesitated.  There  were  stern,,  grim  faces 
round  him,  changed  by  the  stress  of  the  moment  into  the 
semblance  of  dark  Baldwin's;  the  faces  of  men,  who  though 
they  numbered  but  a  dozen  were  his  men,  bound  to  him  by 
every  tie  of  instinct,  and  breeding,  and  custom.  And  he 
had  been  a  soldier,  and  knew  the  fierce  joy  of  a  desperate 
struggle  against  odds.  Might  it  not  be  better  after  all? 

But  then  he  remembered  his  womenkind;  and  after  all, 
why  endanger  these  faithful  men?  He  raised  his  voice  and 


276  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

cried  clearly,  "I  accept  your  good  offices,  Sir  Philip,  and 
I  take  your  advice.  I  will  have  the  drawbridge  lowered, 
only  I  beg  you  will  keep  your  men  well  in  hand,  and  do  my 
poor  house  as  little  damage  as  may  be." 

Giving  Baldwin  the  order,  and  bidding  him  as  soon  as  it 
was  performed  come  to  him,  the  knight  walked  steadily  back 
into  the  courtyard  and  took  his  stand  there.  He  dis- 
patched the  women  and  some  of  the  servants  to  lay  out  a 
meal  in  the  hall.  But  it  was  noticeable  that  the  men  went 
reluctantly,  and  that  all  who  could  find  any  excuse  to  do  so 
lingered  round  Sir  Anthony  as  if  they  could  not  bear  to 
abandon  him ;  as  if,  even  at  the  last  moment,  they  had  some 
vague  notion  of  protecting  their  master  at  all  hazards.  A 
score  of  lanterns  shed  a  gloomy,  uncertain  light — only  in 
places  reinforced  by  the  glow,  from  the  hall  windows — upon 
the  group.  Seldom  had  a  Coton  moon  peeped  over  the 
gables  at  a  scene  stranger  than  that  which  met  the  sheriff's 
eyes,  as  with  his  two  backers  he  passed  under  the  gateway. 

"I  surrender  to  you,  Sir  Philip,"  the  knight  said  with 
dignity,  stepping  forward  a  pace  or  two,  "and  call  you  to 
witness  that  I  might  have  made  resistance  and  have  not. 
My  tenants  are  quiet  in  their  homes,  and  only  my  servants 
are  present.  Father  Carey  is  not  here,  nor  in  the  house. 
This  is  Baldwin  Moor,  my  steward,  but  I  beg  for  him  your 
especial  offices,  since  he  has  done  nothing  save  by  my  com- 
mand." 

"Sir  Anthony,  believe  me  that  I  will  do  all  I  can,"  the 
sheriff  responded  gravely,  "but " 

"But  to  set  at  naught  the  Queen's  proclamtion  and 
order!"  struck  in  a  third  voice  harshly — it  was  Sir  Thomas 
Greville's — "and  she  but  a  month  on  the  throne!  For 
shame,  Sir  Anthony!  It  smacks  to  me  of  high  treason. 
And  many  a  man  has  suffered  for  less,  let  me  tell  you." 

"Had  she  been  longer  on  the  throne,"  the  sheriff  put  in 
more  gently,  "and  were  the  times  quiet,  the  matter  would 
have  been  of  less  moment,  Sir  Anthony,  and  might  not  have 
become  a  state  matter.  But  just  now " 

"Things  are  in  a  perilous  condition,"  Greville  said 
bluntly,  "and  you  have  done  your  little  to  make  them 
worse!" 

The   knight  by  a  great   effort  swallowed  his  rage    and 


AWAITING  THE  BLOW.  277 

humiliation.  "What  will  you  do  with  me,  gentlemen?"  he 
asked,  speaking  with  at  least  the  appearance  of  calmness. 

"That  is  to  be  seen,"  Greville  said,  roughly  over-riding 
his  companion.  "For  to-night  we  must  make  ourselves  and 
our  men  comfortable  here." 

"Certainly — with  Sir  Anthony's  leave,  Sir  Thomas  Grev- 
ille," quoth  a  voice  from  behind.  "But  only  so!" 

More  than  one  started  violently,  while  the  Cludde  ser- 
vants almost  to  a  man  spun  round  at  the  sound  of  the  voice 
— my  voice,  Francis  Cludde's,  though  in  the  darknesss  no 
one  knew  me.  How  shall  I  ever  forget  the  joy  and  lively 
gratitude  which  filled  my  heart  as  I  spoke;  which  turned 
the  night  into  day,  and  that  fantastic  scene  of  shadows  into 
a  festival,  as  I  felt  that  the  ambition  of  the  last  four  years 
was  about  to  be  gratified.  Sir  Anthony,  who  was  one  of  the 
first  to  turn,  peered  among  the  servants.  "Who  spoke?" 
he  cried,  a  sudden  discomposure  in  his  voice  and  manner. 
"Who  spoke  there?" 

"Ay,  Sir  Anthony,  who  did?"  Greville  said  haughtily. 
"Some  one  apparently  who  does  not  quite  understand 
his  place  or  the  state  of  affairs  here.  Stand  back,  my  men, 
and  let  me  see  him.  Perhaps  we  may  teach  him  a  useful 
lesson." 

The  challenge  was  welcome,  for  I  feared  a  scene,  and  to 
be  left  face  to  face  with  my  uncle  more  than  anything. 
Now,  as  the  servants  with  a  loud  murmur  of  surprise  and 
recognition  fell  back  and  disclosed  me  standing  by  Martin's 
side,  I  turned  a  little  from  Sir  Anthony  and  faced  Greville. 
"Not  this  time,  I  think,  Sir  Thomas,"  I  said,  giving  him 
back  glance  for  glance.  "I  have  learned  my  lesson  from 
some  who  have  fared  farther  and  seen  more  than  you,  from 
men  who  have  stood  by  their  cause  in  foul  weather  as  well 
as  fair;  and  were  not  for  mass  one  day  and  a  sermon  the 
next." 

"What  is  this?"  he  cried  angrily.     "Who  are  you?" 

"Sir  Anthony  Cludde's  dutiful  and  loving  nephew,"  I 
answered,  with  a  courteous  bow.  "Come  back,  I  thank 
Heaven,  in  time  to  do  him  a  service,  Sir  Thomas." 

"Master  Francis!  Master  Francis!"  Clopton  exclaimed 
in  remonstrance.  He  had  known  me  in  old  days.  My 
uncle,  meanwhile,  gazed  at  me  in  the  utmost  astonishment, 


278  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

and  into  the  servants'  faces  there  flashed  a  strange  light, 
while  many  of  them  hailed  me  in  a  tone  which  told  me  that 
I  had  but  to  give  the  word,  and  they  would  fall  on  the  very 
sheriff  himself.  "Master  Francis,"  Sir  Philip  Clopton 
repeated  gravely,  "if  you  would  do  your  uncle  a  service, 
this  is  not  the  way  to  go  about  it.  He  has  surrendered  and 
is  our  prisoner.  Brawling  will  not  mend  matters." 

I  laughed  out  loudly  and  merrily.  "Do  you  know,  Sir 
Philip,"  I  said,  with  something  of  the  old  boyish  ring  in  my 
voice,  "I  have  been,  since  I  saw  you  last,  to  Belgium  and 
Germany,  ay,  and  Poland  and  Hamburg!  Do  you  think  I 
have  come  back  a  fool?" 

"I  do  not  know  what  to  think  of  you,"  he  replied  dryly, 
"but  you  had  best " 

"Keep  a  civil  tongue  in  your  head,  my  friend!"  said 
Grevillewith  harshness,  "and  yourself  out  of  this  business." 

"It  is  just  this  business  I  have  come  to  get  into,  Sir 
Thomas,"  I  answered,  with  increasing  good  humor.  "Sir 
Anthony,  show  them  that!"  I  continued,  and  I  drew  out  a 
little  packet  of  parchment  with  a  great  red  seal  hanging 
from  it  by  a  green  ribbon;  just  such  a  packet  as  that  which 
I  had  stolen  from  the  Bishop's  apparitor  nearly  four  years 
back.  "A  lantern  here!"  I  cried.  "Hold  it  steady,  Mar- 
tin, that  Sir  Anthony  may  read.  Master  Sheriff  wants  his 
rere-supper." 

I  gave  the  packet  into  the  knight's  hand,  my  own  shak- 
ing. Ay,  shaking,  for  was  not  this  the  fulfillment  of  that 
boyish  vow  I  had  made  in  my  little  room  in  the  gable  yon- 
der, so  many  years  ago?  A  fulfillment  strange  and  timely, 
such  as  none  but  a  boy  in  his  teens  could  have  hoped  for,  nor 
any  but  a  man  who  had  tried  the  chances  and  mishaps  of  the 
world  could  fully  enjoy  as  I  was  enjoying  it.  I  tingled  with 
the  rush  through  my  veins  of  triumph  and  gratitude.  Up 
to  the  last  moment  I  had  feared  lest  anything  should  go 
wrong,  lest  this  crowning  happiness  should  be  withheld  from 
me.  Now  I  stood  there  smiling,  watching  Sir  Anthony,  as 
with  trembling  fingers  he  fumbled  with  the  paper.  And 
there  was  only  one  thing,  only  one  person,  wanting  to  my 
joy.  I  looked,  and  looked  again,  but  I  could  not  anywhere 
see  Petronilla. 

"What  is  it?"  Sir  Anthony  said  feebly,  turning  the  packet 
over  and  over.  "It  is  for  the  sheriff;  for  the  sheriff,  is  it 
not?" 


AWAITING  THE  BLOW.  279 

"He  had  better  open  it  then,  sir,"  I  answered  gayly. 

Sir  Philip  took  the  packet  and  after  a  glance  at  the  address 
tore  it  open.  "It  is  an  order  from  Sir  William  Cecil,"  he 
muttered.  Then  he  ran  his  eye  down  the  brief  contents, 
while  all  save  myself  pricked  their  ears  and  pressed  closer, 
and  I  looked  swiftly  from  face  to  face,  as  the  wavering  light 
lit  up  now  one  and  now  another.  Old  familiar  faces  for 
the  most  part. 

'  Well,  Sir  Philip,  will  you  stop  to  supper?"  I  cried  with 
a  laugh,  when  he  had  had  time,  as  I  judged,  to  reach  the 
signature. 

"Go  to!"  he  grunted,  looking  at  me.  "Nice  fools  you 
have  made  of  us,  young  man!"  He  passed  the  letter  to 
Greville.  "Sir  Anthony,"  he  continued,  a  mixture  of  pleas- 
ure and  chagrin  in  his  voice,  "you  are  free!  I  congratu- 
late you  on  your  luck.  Your  nephew  has  brought  an  am- 
nesty for  all  things  done  up  to  the  present  time  save  for  any 
life  taken,  in  which  case  the  matter  is  to  be  referred  to  the 
Secretary.  Fortunately  my  dead  horse  is  the  worst  of  the 
mischief,  so  free  you  are,  and  amnestied,  though  nicely 
Master  Cecil  has  befooled  us!" 

"We  will  give  you  another  horse,  Sir  Philip,"  I  answered. 

But  the  words  were  wasted  on  the  air.  They  were 
drowned  in  a  great  shout  of  joy  and  triumph  which  rang 
from  a  score  of  Cludde  throats  the  moment  the  purport  of 
the  paper  was  understood;  a  shout  which  made  the  old 
house  shake  again,  and  scared  the  dogs  so  that  they  fled 
away  into  corners  and  -gazed  askance  at  us,  their  tails  be- 
tween their  legs;  a  shout  that  was  plainly  heard  a  mile  away 
in  half  a  dozen  homesteads  where  Cludde  men  lay  gloomy 
in  their  beds. 

By  this  time  my  uncle's  hand  was  in  mine.  With  his 
other  he  took  off  his  hat.  "Lads!"  he  cried  huskily,  rear- 
ing his  tall  form  in  our  midst;  "a  cheer  for  the  Queen! 
God  keep  her  safe,  and  long  may  she  reign!" 

This  was  universally  regarded  as  the  end  of  what  they  still 
proudly  call  in  those  parts  "the  Coton  Insurrection!" 
When  silence  came  again,  every  dog,  even  the  oldest  and 
wisest,  had  bayed  himself  hoarse  and  fled  to  kennel,  think- 
ing the  end  of  the  world  was  come.  My  heart,  as  I  joined 
roundly  in,  swelled  high  with  pride,  and  there  were  tears  in 
my  eyes  as  well  as  in  my  uncle's.  But  there  is  no  triumph 
after  all  without  its  drawback,  no  fruition  equal  to  the 


28o  THE  STOKY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

anticipation.  Where  was  Petronilla?  I  could  see  her 
nowhere.  I  looked  from  window  to  window,  but  she  was 
at  none.  I  scanned  the  knot  of  maids,  but  could  not  find 
her.  Even  the  cheering  had  not  brought  her  out. 

It  was  wonderful,  though,  how  the  cheers  cleared  the  air. 
Even  Sir  Thomas  Greville  regained  good  humor,  and 
deigned  to  shake  me  by  the  hand  and  express  himself 
pleased  that  the  matter  had  ended  so  happily.  Then  the 
sheriff  drew  him  and  Bridgewater  away,  to  look  to  their 
men's  arrangements,  seeing,  I  think,  that  my  uncle  and  I 
would  fain  be  alone  awhile;  and  at  last  I  asked  with  a  trem- 
bling voice  after  Petronilla. 

"To  be  sure,"  Sir  Anthony  answered,  furtively  wiping 
his  eyes.  "I  had  forgotten  her,  dear  lad.  I  wish  now  that 
she  had  stayed.  But  tell  me,  Francis,  how  came  you  back 
to-night,  and  how  did  you  manage  this?" 

Something  of  what  he  asked  I  told  him  hurriedly.  But 
then — be  sure  I  took  advantage  of  the  first  opening — I 
asked  again  after  Petronilla.  "Where  has  she  gone,  sir?" 
I  said,  trying  to  conceal  my  impatience.  "I  thought  that 
Martin  told  me  she  was  here;  indeed,  that  he  had  seen  her 
after  I  arrived." 

"I  am  not  sure,  do  you  know,"  Sir  Anthony  answered, 
eying  me  absently,  "that  I  was  wise,  but  I  considered  she 
was  safer  away,  Francis.  And  she  can  be  fetched  back  in 
the  morning.  I  feared  there  might  be  some  disturbance  in 
the  house — as  indeed  there  well  might  have  been — and 
though  she  begged  very  hard  to  stay  with  me,  I  sent  her 
off." 

"This  evening,  sir?"  I  stammered,  suddenly  chilled. 

"Yes,  an  hour  ago." 

"But  an  hour  ago  every  approach  was  guarded,  Sir  An- 
thony," I  cried  in  surprise.  "I  had  the  greatest  difficulty 
in  slipping  through  from  the  outside  myself,  well  as  I  know 
every  field  and  tree.  To  escape  from  within,  even  for  a 
man,  much  less  a  woman,  would  have  been  impossible.  She 
will  have  been  stopped." 

"I  think  not,"  he  said,  with  a  smile  at  once  sage  and 
indulgent — which  seemed  to  add,  "You  think  yourself  a 
clever  lad,  but  you  do  not  know  everything  yet." 

"I  sent  her  out  by  the  secret  passage  to  the  mill-house, 


AWAITING  THE  BLOW.  281 

you  see,"  he  explained,  "as  soon  as  I  heard  the  sheriff's 
party  outside.  I  could  have  given  them  the  slip  myself,  had 
I  pleased." 

"The  mill  house?"  I  answered.  The  mill  stood  nearly 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  Coton  End,  beyond  the  gardens, 
and  in  the  direction  of  the  village.  I  remembered  vaguely 
that  I  had  heard  from  the  servants  in  old  days  some  talk  of 
a  secret  outlet  leading  from  the  house  to  it.  But  they  knew 
no  particulars,  and  its  existence  was  only  darkly  rumored 
among  them. 

"You  did  not  know  of  the  passage,"  Sir  Anthony  said, 
chuckling  at  my  astonishment.  "No,  I  remember.  But 
the  girl  did.  Your  father  and  his  wife  went  with  her.  He 
quite  agreed  in  the  wisdom  of  sending  her  away,  and  indeed 
advised  it.  On  reaching  the  mill,  if  they  found  all  quiet 
they  were  to  walk  across  to  Watney's  farm.  There  they 
could  get  horses  and  might  ride  at  their  leisure  to  Stratford 
and  wait  the  event.  I  thought  it  best  for  her;  and  Ferdi- 
nand agreed." 

"And  my  father — went  with  her?"  I  muttered  hoarsely, 
feeling  myself  growing  chill  to  the  heart.  Hardly  could  I 
restrain  my  indignation  at  Sir  Anthony's  folly,  or  my  own 
anger  and  disappointment — and  fear.  For  though  my  head 
seemed  on  fire  and  there  was  a  tumult  in  my  brain,  I  was 
cool  enough  to  trace  clearly  my  father's  motives,  and  dis- 
cern with  what  a  deliberate  purpose  he  had  acted.  "He 
went  with  her?" 

"Yes,  he  and  his  wife,"  the  knight  answered,  noticing 
nothing  in  his  obtuseness. 

"You  have  been  fooled,  sir,"  I  said  bitterly.  "My 
father  you  should  have  known,  and  for  his  wife,  she  is  a  bad, 
unscrupulous  woman!  Oh,  the  madness  of  it,  to  put  my 
cousin  into  their  hands!" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  the  knight  cried,  beginning  to 
tremble.  "Your  father  is  a  changed  man,  lad.  He  has 
come  back  to  the  old  faith  and  in  a  dark  hour  too.  He ' ' 

"He  is  a  hypocrite  and  a  villain!"  I  retorted,  stung 
almost  to  madness  by  this  wound  in  my  tenderest  place; 
stung  indeed  beyond  endurance.  Why  should  I  spare  him, 
when  to  spare  him  was  to  sacrifice  the  innocent?  Why 
should  I  pick  my  words,  when  my  love  was  in  danger?  He 
had  had  no  mercy  and  no  pity.  Why  should  I  shrink  from 


282  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

exposing  him?  Heaven  had  dealt  with  him  patiently  and 
given  him  life;  and  he  did  but  abuse  it.  I  could  keep 
silence  no  longer,  and  told  Sir  Anthony  all  with  a  stinging 
tongue  and  in  gibing  words;  even,  at  last,  how  my  father 
had  given  me  a  hint  of  the  very  plan  he  had  now  carried 
out,  of  coming  down  to  Coton,  and  goading  his  brother  into 
some  offense  which  might  leave  his  estate  at  the  mercy  of 
the  authorities. 

"I  did  not  think  he  meant  it,"  I  said  bitterly.  "But  I 
might  have  known  that  the  leopard  does  not  change  its 
spots.  How  you,  who  knew  him  years  ago,  and  knew  that 
he  had  plotted  against  you  since,  came  to  trust  him  again — 
to  trust  your  daughter  to  him — passes  my  fancy!" 

"He  was  my  brother,"  the  knight  murmured,  leaning 
white  and  stricken  on  my  shoulder. 

"And  my  father — heaven  help  us!"  I  rejoined. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

IN    HARBOR    AT    LAST. 

«TT7Emust  first  help  ourselves,"  Sir  Anthony  answered 
V V  sharply ;  rousing  himself  with  wonderful  energy 
from  the  prostration  into  which  my  story  had  thrown  him. 
"I  will  send  after  her.  She  shall  be  brought  back.  Ho! 
Baldwin!  Martin!"  he  cried  loudly.  "Send  Baldwin 
hither!  Be  quick  there!" 

Out  of  the  ruck  of  servants  in  and  about  the  hall,  Bald- 
win came  rushing  presently,  wiping  his  lips  as  he  ap- 
proached. A  single  glance  at  our  faces  sobered  him. 
"Send  Martin  down  to  the  mill!"  Sir  Anthony  ordered 
curtly.  "Bid  him  tell  my  daughter  if  she  be  there  to  come 
back.  And  do  you  saddle  a  couple  of  horses,  and  be 
ready  to  ride  with  Master  Francis  to  Watney's  farm,  and 
on  to  Stratford,  if  it  be  necessary.  Lose  not  a  minute ;  my 
daughter  is  with  Master  Ferdinand.  My  order  is  that  she 
return." 

The  fool  had  come  up  only  a  pace  or  two  behind  the 
steward.  "Do  you  hear,  Martin?"  I  added  eagerly,  turn- 
ing to  him.  My  thoughts,  busy  with  the  misery  which 
might  befall  her  in  their  hands,  maddened  me.  "You  will 
bring  her  back  if  you  find  her,  mind  you." 

He  did  not  answer,  but  his  eyes  glittered  as  they  met 
mine,  and  I  knew  that  he  understood.  As  he  flitted  silently 
across  the  court  and  disappeared  under  the  gateway,  I  knew 
that  no  hound  could  be  more  sure,  I  knew  that  he  would 
not  leave  the  trail  until  he  had  found  Petronilla,  though  he 
had  to  follow  her  for  many  a  mile.  We  might  have  to  pur- 
sue the  fugitives  to  Stratford,  but  I  felt  sure  that  Martin's 
lean  figure  and  keen  dark  face  would  be  there  to  meet  us. 

Us?  No.  Sir  Anthony  indeed  said  to  me,  "You  will  go 
of  course?"  speaking  as  if  only  one  answer  were  possible. 

But  it  was  not  to  be  so.     "No,"  I  said,  "you  had  better 


284  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

go,  sir.  Or  Baldwin  can  be  trusted.  He  can  take  two  or 
three  of  the  grooms.  They  should  be  armed,"  I  added,  in 
a  lower  tone. 

My  uncle  looked  hard  at  me,  and  then  gave  his  assent,  no 
longer  wondering  why  I  did  not  go.  Instead  he  bade  Bald- 
win do  as  I  had  suggested.  In  truth  my  heart  was  so  hot 
with  wrath  and  indignation  that  I  dared  not  follow,  lest  my 
father,  in  his  stern,  mocking  way,  should  refsue  to  let  her  go, 
and  harm  should  happen  between  us.  If  I  were  right  in  my 
suspicions,  and  he  had  capped  his  intrigue  by  deliberately 
getting  the  girl  I  loved  into  his  hands  as  a  hostage,  either  as 
a  surety  that  I  would  share  with  him  if  I  succeeded  to  the 
estates,  or  as  a  means  of  extorting  money  from  his  brother, 
then  I  dared  not  trust  myself  face  to  face  with  him.  If  I 
could  have  mounted  and  ridden  after  my  love,  I  could  have 
borne  it  better.  But  the  curse  seemed  to  cling  to  me  still. 
My  worst  foe  was  one  against  whom  I  could  not  lift  my 
hand. 

"But  what,"  my  uncle  asked,  his  voice  quavering,  though 
his  words  seemed  intended  to  combat  my  fears,  "what  can 
he  do,  lad?  She  is  his  niece." 

"What?"  I  answered,  with  a  shudder.  "I  do  not  know, 
but  I  fear  everything.  If  he  should  elude  us  and  take  her 
abroad  with  him — heaven  help  her,  sir!  He  will  use  her 
somehow  to  gain  his  ends — or  kill  her." 

Sir  Anthony  wiped  his  brow  with  a  trembling  hand. 
"Baldwin  will  overtake  them,"  he  said. 

"Let  us  hope  so,"  I  answered.  Alas,  how  far  fell  fru- 
ition short  of  anticipation.  This  was  my  time  of  triumph! 
"You  had  better  go  in,  sir,"  I  said  presently,  gaining  a 
little- mastery  over  myself.  "I  see  Sir  Philip  has  returned; 
from  settling  his  men  for  the  night.  He  and  Greville  will 
be  wondering  what  has  happened." 

"And  you?"  he  said. 

"I  cannot,"  I  answered,  shaking  my  head. 

After  he  had  gone  I  stood  a  while  in  the  shadow  on  the 
,'ar  side  of  the  court,  listening  to  the  clatter  of  knives  and 
dishes,  the  cheerful  hum  of  the  servants  as  they  called  to 
one  another,  the  hurrying  footsteps  of  the  maids.  A  dog 
crept  out,  and  licked  my  hand  as  it  hung  nerveless  by  my 


IN  HARBOR  AT  LAST.  285 

side.  Surely  Martin  or  Baldwin  would  overtake  them.  Or 
if  not,  it  still  was  not  so  easy  to  take  a  girl  abroad  against 
her  will. 

But  would  that  be  his  plan?  He  must  have  hiding-places 
in  England  to  which  he  might  take  her,  telling  her  any  wild 
story  of  her  father's  death  or  flight,  or  even  perhaps  of  her 
own  danger  if  her  whereabouts  were  known.  I  had  had 
experience  of  his  daring,  his  cunning,  his  plausibility.  Had 
he  not  taken  in  all  with  whom  he  had  come  into  contact, 
except,  by  some  strange  fate,  myself.  To  be  sure  Anne 
was  not  altogether  without  feeling  or  conscience.  But  she 
was  his — his  entirely,  body  and  soul.  Yes,  if  I  could  have 
followed,  I  could  have  borne  it  better.  It  was  this  dread- 
ful inaction  which  was  killing  me. 

The  bustle  and  voices  of  the  servants,  who  were  in  high 
spirits,  so  irritated  me  at  last  that  I  wandered  away,  going 
first  to  the  dark,  silent  gardens,  where  I  walked  up  and  down 
in  a  fever  of  doubt  and  fear,  much  as  I  had  done  on  the  last 
evening  I  had  spent  at  Colon.  Then  a  fancy  seized  me, 
and  turning  from  the  fish-pond  I  walked  toward  the  house. 
Crossing  the  moat  I  made  for  the  church  door  and  tried  it. 
It  was  unlocked.  I  went  in.  Here  at  least  in  the  sacred 
place  I  should  find  quietness ;  and  unable  to  help  myself  in 
this  terrible  crisis,  might  get  help  from  One  to  whom  my 
extremity  was  but  an  opportunity. 

I  walked  up  the  aisle  and,  finding  all  in  darkness,  the 
moon  at  the  moment  being  obscured,  felt  my  way  as  far  as 
Sir  Piers'  flat  monument,  and  sat  down  upon  it.  I  had  been 
there  scarcely  a  minute  when  a  faint  sound,  which  seemed 
rather  a  sigh  or  an  audible  shudder  than  any  articulate  word, 
came  out  of  the  darkness  in  front  of  me.  My  great  trouble 
had  seemed  to  make  superstitious  fears  for  the  time  impos- 
sible, but  at  this  sound  I  started  and  trembled;  and  holding 
my  breath  felt  a  cold  shiver  run  down  my  back.  Motion- 
less I  peered  before  me,  and  yet  could  see  nothing.  All  was 
gloom,  the  only  distinguishable  feature  being  the  east  win- 
dow. 

What  was  that?  A  soft  rustle  as  of  ghostly  garments 
moving  in  the  aisle  was  succeeded  by  another  sigh  which 
made  me  rise  from  my  seat,  my  hair  stiffening.  Then  I  saw 
the  outline  of  the  east  window  growing  brighter  and 


286  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

brighter,  and  I  knew  that  the  moon  was  about  to  shine  clear 
of  the  clouds,  and  longed  to  turn  and  fly,  yet  did  not  dare 
to  move. 

Suddenly  the  light  fell  on  the  altar  steps  and  disclosed  a 
kneeling  form  which  seemed  to  be  partly  turned  toward  me 
as  though  watching  me.  The  face  I  could  not  see — it  was 
in  shadow — and  I  stood  transfixed,  gazing  at  the  figure,  half 
in  superstitious  terror  and  half  in  wonder;  until  a  voice  I 
had  not  heard  for  years,  and  yet  should  have  known  among 
a  thousand,  said  softly,  "Francis!" 

"Who  calls  me?"  I  muttered  hoarsely,  knowing  and  yet 
disbelieving,  hoping  and  yet  with  a  terrible  fear  at  heart. 

"It  is  I,  Petronilla!"  said  the  same  voice  gently.  And 
then  the  form  rose  and  glided  toward  me  through  the  moon- 
light. "It  is  I,  Petronilla.  Do  you  not  know  me?"  said 
my  love  again ;  and  fell  upon  my  breast. 

She  had  been  firmly  resolved  all  the  time  not  to  quit  her 
father,  and  on  the  first  opportunity  had  given  the  slip  to  her 
company,  while  the  horses  were  being  saddled  at  Watney's 
farm.  Stealing  back  through  the  darkness  she  had  found 
the  house  full  of  uproar,  and  apparently  occupied  by  strange 
troopers.  Aghast  and  not  knowing  what  to  do,  she  had 
bethought  herself  of  the  church  and  there  taken  refuge. 
On  my  first  entrance  she  was  horribly  alarmed.  But  as  I 
walked  up  the  aisle,  she  recognized — so  she  has  since  told 
me  a  thousand  times  with  pride — my  footstep,  though  it  had 
long  been  a  stranger  to  her  ear,  and  she  had  no  thought  at 
the  moment  of  seeing  me,  or  hearing  the  joyful  news  I 
brought. 

And  so  my  story  is  told.  For  what  passed  then  between 
Petronilla  and  me  lies  between  my  wife  and  myself.  And 
it  is  an  old,  old  story,  and  one  which  our  children  have  no 
need  to  learn,  for  they  have  told  it,  many  of  them  for  them- 
selves, and  their  children  are  growing  up  to  tell  it.  I  think 
in  some  odd  corner  of  the  house  there  may  still  be  found  a 
very  ancient  swallow's  nest,  which  young  girls  bring  out  and 
look  at  tenderly;  but  for  my  sword-knot  I  fear  it  has  been 
worn  out  these  thirty  years.  What  matter,  even  though  it 
was  velvet  of  Genoa  ?  He  that  has  the  substance,  lacks  not 
the  shadow. 


IN  HARBOR  AT  LAST.  287 

I  never  saw  my  father  again,  nor  learned  accurately  what 
passed  at  Watney's  farm  after  Petronilla  was  missed  by  her 
two  companions.  But  one  man,  whom  I  could  ill  spare, 
was  also  missing  on  that  night,  whose  fate  is  still  something 
of  a  mystery.  That  was  Martin  Luther.  I  have  always 
believed  that  he  fell  in  a  desperate  encounter  with  my 
father,  but  no  traces  of  the  struggle,  or  his  body  were  ever 
found.  The  track  between  Watney's  farm  and  Stratford, 
however,  runs  for  a  certain  distance  by  the  river;  and  at 
some  point  on  this  road  I  think  Martin  must  have  come  up 
with  the  refugees,  and  failing  either  to  find  Petronilla  with 
them,  or  to  get  any  satisfactory  account  of  her,  must  have 
flung  himself  on  my  father  and  been  foiled  and  killed.  The 
exact  truth  I  have  said  was  never  known,  though  Baldwin 
and  I  talked  over  it  again  and  again;  and  there  were  even 
some  who  said  that  a  servant  much  resembling  Martin 
Luther  was  seen  with  my  father  in  the  Low  Countries  not  a 
month  before  his  death.  I  put  no  credence  in  this,  how- 
ever, having  good  reason  to  think  that  the  poor  fool — who 
was  wiser  in  his  sane  moments  than  most  men — would  never 
have  left  my  service  while  the  breath  remained  in  his  body. 

I  have  heard  it  said  that  blood  washes  out  shame.  My 
father  was  killed  in  a  skirmish  in  the  Netherlands  shortly 
before  the  peace  of  Chateau  Cambresis,  and  about  three 
months  after  the  events  here  related.  I  have  no  doubt  that 
he  died  as  a  brave  man  should ;  for  he  had  that  virtue.  He 
held  no  communication  with  me  or  with  any  at  Coton  End 
later  than  that  which  I  have  here  described ;  but  would 
appear  to  have  entered  the  service  of  Cardinal  Granvelle, 
the  governor  of  the  Netherlands,  for  after  his  death  word 
came  to  the  Duchess  of  Suffolk  that  Mistress  Anne  Cludde 
had  entered  a  nunnery  at  Bruges  under  the  Cardinal's 
auspices.  Doubtless  she  is  long  since  dead. 

And  so  are  many  others  of  whom  I  have  spoken — Sir 
Anthony,  the  Duchess,  Master  Bertie,  and  Master  Lind- 
strom.  For  forty  years  have  passed  since  these  things  hap- 
pened— years  of  peaceful,  happy  life,  which  have  gone  by 
more  swiftly,  as  it  seems  to  me  in  the  retrospect,  than 
the  four  years  of  my  wanderings.  The  Lindstroms  sought 
refuge  in  England  in  the  second  year  of  the  Queen,  and  set- 
tled in  Lowestoft  under  the  Duchess  of  Suffolk's  protection, 
and  did  well  and  flourished  as  became  them ;  nor  indeed  did 


a 88  THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

they  find,  I  trust,  others  ungrateful,  though  I  experienced 
some  difficulty  in  inducing  Sir  Anthony  to  treat  the  Dutch 
burgher  as  on  an  equality  with  himself.  Lord  Willoughby 
de  Eresby,  the  Peregrine  to  whom  I  stood  godfather  in  St. 
Willibrod's  church  at  Wesel,  is  now  a  middle-aged  man  and 
my  very  good  friend,  the  affection  which  his  mother  felt  for 
me  having  descended  to  him  in  full  measure.  She  was 
indeed  such  a  woman  as  Her  Majesty ;  large-hearted  and 
free-tongued,  of  masculine  courage  and  a  wonderful  tender- 
ness. And  of  her  husband  what  can  I  say  save  that  he  was  a 
brave  Christian — and  in  peaceful  times — a  studious  gentle- 
man. 

But  it  is  not  only  in  vacant  seats  and  gray  hairs  that  I 
trace  the  progress  of  forty  years.  They  have  done  for  Eng- 
land almost  all  that  men  hoped  they  might  do  in  the  first 
dawn  of  the  reign.  We  have  seen  great  foes  defeated,  and 
strong  friends  gained.  We  have  seen  the  coinage  amended, 
trade  doubled,  the  Exchequer  filled,  the  roads  made  good, 
the  poor  provided  for  in  a  Christian  manner,  the  Church 
grown  strong;  all  this  in  these  years.  We  have  seen  Hol- 
land rise  and  Spain  decline,  and  well  may  say  in  the  words 
of  the  old  text,  which  my  grandfather  set  up  over  the  hall 
door  at  Coton,  " Frustra,  nisi  Dominus." 


THE   END. 


A  Selected  List  of  Fiction 

Published  by      «««««« 

Longmans,  Green,  &  Co., 

91  and  93  Fifth  Avenue,  »  New  York. 


BY  STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN. 

Each  volume  illustrated.     Crown  8vo,  $1.25. 
A  GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE.      THE  MAN  IN  BLACK. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  WOLF.  New  edition  preparing. 

UNDER  THE  RED  ROBE.  FROM  THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A 

MY  LADY  ROTHA.  MINISTER  OF  FRANCE. 

THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 


SHREWSBURY,  with  24  Illustrations,  Decorative  Cover,  $i  50 
THE  RED  COCKADE, with  48  Illustrations,  cloth,  $1.50. 
THE  CASTLE  INN,  with  6  full-page  Illustrations,  $1.50. 

BY  H.  RIDER  HAGGARD. 

Each  volume  illustrated.      Crown  8vo,  $1.25. 
THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  MIST.      CLEOPATRA. 
HEART  OF  THE  WORLD. 
JOAN  HASTE. 
DAWN. 

MONTEZUMA'S  DAUGHTER. 
NADA  THE  LILY. 


SHE. 

THE  WIZARD. 

BEATRICE. 

THE  WORLD'S  DESIRE. 

ALLAN  QUATERMAIN. 


SWALLOW,  with  12  full-page  Illustrations,  $1.50. 
DOCTOR  THERNE.     A  Story.     Crown  8vo,  $1.00. 

By  Andrew  Lang. 

A  MONK  OF  FIFE.     A  Romance  of  the  Days  of  Jeanne  D'Arc. 
Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

MICAH  CLARKE.     Illustrated.     I2mo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  POLESTAR,  and  Other  Tales.     $1.25. 

By  Edna  Lyall. 

DOREEN.     The  Story  of  a  Singer.      Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.50. 
THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SLANDER.     Illustrated.    Cloth,  $1.00. 
THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  TRUTH.     Cloth,  50  cents. 
WAYFARING  MEN.     Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.50. 
HOPE  THE  HERMIT.     Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

By  Mrs.  Walford. 

THE  MATCHMAKER.     Crown  8vo,  buckram  cloth,  $1.50. 

THE  ONE  GOOD  GUEST.      i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00  ;  paper,  50  cents. 

"  PLOUGHED,"  and  Other  Stories.     I2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

IVA  KILDARE.     A  Matrimonial  Problem..    Crown  8vo,  $i.5°« 

LEDDY  MARGET.     Crown  8vo,  buckram,  $1.50. 

THE  INTRUDERS.     Crown  8vo,  buckram,  $1.50. 

THE  ARCHDEACON.    Crown  8vo,  buckram,  $1.50. 


By  E.   L.  Barrow. 

THE  KING'S  RIVALS.     With  Frontispiece.    Cloth,  $1.25. 

By  Clementina  Black. 

PRINCESS  DESIREE.     A  Romance.     Illustrated.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

By  J.  W.  De  Forrest. 

A  LOVER'S  REVOLT.     With  Frontispiece.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

By  Miss  L.  Dougall. 

BEGGARS  ALL.     A  Novel.     Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

WHAT  NECESSITY  KNOWS.     A  Novel.     Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

By  Julia  Magruder. 

THE  VIOLET.     Illustrated.     Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

By  Brander  Matthews. 

A  FAMILY  TREE.     Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.25;  paper,  50  cents. 

By  Henry  Seton  Merriman. 

FLOTSAM.     The  Study  of  a  Life.      Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

By  Mrs.  Molesworth. 

UNCANNY  TALES.     Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

By  Florence  Montgomery. 

COLONEL  NORTON.     Crown  8vo,  buckram  cloth,  $1.50. 

By  Mrs.  Oliphant. 

OLD  MR.  TREDGOLD.     Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

By  Mrs.  Parr. 

CAN  THIS  BE  LOVE?     Illustrated.     I2mo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

By  Medley  Peek. 

THE  CHARIOT  OF  THE  FLESH.     Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

By  Owen  Rhoscomyl. 

BATTLEMENT  AND  TOWER.     With  Frontispiece.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

THE  JEWEL  OF  YNYS  GALON.       With    12   full-page  Illustrations  by 

Lancelot  Speed.     Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.25. 
THE  WHITE  ROSE  OF'ARNO.     Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

By  5.  Levett-Yeats. 

THE  CHEVALIER  D'AURIAC.     Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.25. 
THE  HEART  OF  DENISE.     With  Frontispiece.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

By  Fred  Whishaw. 

A  BOYAR  OF  THE  TERRIBLE.     A  Romance  of  the  Court  of  Ivan  the 

Cruel,  First  Tsar  of  Russia.     Illustrated.     Cloth,  $1.25. 
A  TSAR'S  GRATITUDE.     Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

By  Mrs.  Woods. 

WEEPING  FERRY.    Crown  8vo,  buckram  cloth,  $1.50. 


FROM  THE  MEMOIRS 
OF  A  MINISTER  OF  FRANCE. 

BY  STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN, 

AUTHOR  OP  "A  GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE,"  "UNDER  THE  RED  ROBE,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


With   36    Illustrations,   of   which    1  5    are  full-page. 
12mo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1.25. 


"  A  collection  of  twelve  tales,  each  one  of  which  is  to  be  classed  as  a  masterpiece, 
so  subtle  and  strong  is  it  in  the  revelation  of  character,  so  impressive  its  portrayal 
of  the  times  and  the  scenes  with  which  it  deals.  .  .  .  Mr.  Weyman  has  produced 
a  really  brilliant  book,  one  that  will  appeal  alike  to  the  lovers  of  literature,  of  adven- 
ture, and  to  those  who  demand  in  fiction  the  higher  intellectual  quality.  .  .  .  The 
chances  are  that  those  who  take  it  up  will  not  put  it  down  again  with  a  page  or  even 
a  line  unread." — BOSTON  BEACON. 

"  To  read  these  merry  tales  of  adventure  and  to  lose  all  sense,  for  the  moment, 
of  life's  complexities,  is  a  refreshment ;  it  is  to  drink  again  at  the  pure  spring  of 
romance.  .  .  .  Weyman  .  .  .  has  caught  more  of  the  inner  spirit  of  sixteenth 
century  life  than  any  romancer  since  Scott." — OREGONIAN,  PORTLAND,  ORE. 

"These  briefer  tales  have  all  the  charm  and  attractiveness  that  attach  to  their 
author's  longer  romances,  and  many  of  the  leading  characters  of  the  latter  figure  in 
them.  He  catches  the  attention  of  the  reader  at  the  very  outset  and  holds-it  to  the  end  ; 
while  his  skill  as  a  story-teller  is  so  great  that  his  characters  become  real  beings  to  us, 
and  the  scenes  which  he  describes  seem  actual  and  present  occurrences  as  he  narrates 
them."— SACRED  HEART  REVIEW,  BOSTON. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  WOLF. 

A   ROMANCE. 
BY  STANLEY   J.   WEYMAN, 

AUTHOR   OF    "  A   GENTLEMAN    OF  FRANCE,"   ETC. 


With   Frontispiece  and  Vignette   by  Charles  Kerr. 
12mo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1.25. 


"  A  delightful  volume  .  .  .  one  of  the  brightest,  briskest  tales  I  have  met  with  for  a 
long  time.  Dealing  with  the  Eve  of  St.  Bartholomew  it  portrays  that  night  of  horror  from  a 
point  entirely  new,  and,  we  may  add,  relieves  the  gloom  by  many  a  flash  and  gleam  of  sun- 
shine. Best  of  all  is  the  conception  of  the  Vidame.  His  character  alone  would  make  the 
book  live." — CRITIC,  N.  Y. 

"  Recounted  as  by  an  eye  witness  in  a  forceful  way  with  a  rapid  and  graphic  style  that 
commands  interest  and  admiration. 

Of  the  half  dozen  stories  of  St.  Bartholomew's  Eve  which  we  have  read  this  ranks  first 
in  vividness,  delicacy  of  perception,  reserve  power,  and  high  principle." 

— CHRISTIAN  UNION,  N.  Y. 

"  A  romance  which,  although  short,  deserves  a  place  in  literature  along  side  of  Charles 
Reade's  '  Cloister  and  the  Hearth.'  .  .  .  We  have  given  Mr.  Weyman's  book  not  only 
a  thorough  reading  with  great  interest,  but  also  a  more  than  usual  amount  of  space  because 
we  consider  it  one  of  the  best  examples  in  recent  fiction  of  how  thrilling  and  even  bloody 
adventures  and  scenes  may  be  described  in  a  style  that  is  graphic  and  true  to  detail,  and  yet 
delicate,  quaint,  and  free  from  all  coarseness  and  brutalky." 

— COMMERCIAL  ADVERTISER,  N.  Y. 


LONGMANS,  GBEEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  PITTH  AVE.,  NEW  YORK- 


A  GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE. 

Being:  the  Memoirs  of  Gaston  de  Bonne, 
Sieur  de  Marsac. 

BY  STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN. 

AUTHOR    OF   "THE    HOUSE    OF  THE   WOLF,"   ETC. 


With  Frontispiece  and  Vignette  by  H.  J.  Ford. 
12mo,  Cloth,   Ornamental,  $1.25. 

"One  of  the  best  novels  since  'Lorna  Doone.'  It  will  be  read  and  then  re-read  (or  th« 
4tere  pleasure  its  reading  gives.  The  subtle  charm  of  it  is  not  in  merely  transporting  the 
nineteenth-century  reader  to  the  sixteenth,  that  he  may  see  life  as  it  was  then,  but  in  trans- 
forming him  into  a  sixteenth-century  man,  thinking  its  thoughts,  and  living  its  life  in  perfect 
touch  and  sympathy  ...  it  carries  the  reader  out  of  his  present  life,  giving  him  a  new 
and  totally  different  existence  that  rests  and  refreshes  him." — N.  Y.  WORLD. 

"  No  novelist  outside  of  France  has  displayed  a  more  definite  comprehension  of  the  very 
essence  of  mediaeval  French  life,  and  no  one,  certainly,  has  been  able  to  set  forth  a  depiction 
of  it  in  colors  so  vivid  and  so  entirely  in  consonance  with  the  truth.  .  .  .  The  characters 
in  the  tale  are  admirably  drawn,  and  the  narrative  is  nothing  less  than  fascinating  in  its  fine 
flavor  of  adventure." — BEACON,  BOSTON. 

"  We  hardly  know  whether  to  call  this  latest  work  of  Stanley  J.  Weyman  a  historical 
lomance  or  a  story  of  adventure.  It  has  all  the  interesting,  fascinating  and  thrilling  charac- 
teristics of  both.  The  scene  is  in  France,  and  the  time  is  that  fateful  eventful  one  which 
culminated  in  Henry  of  Navarre  becoming  king.  Naturally  it  is  a  story  of  plots  and  intrigue, 
of  danger  and  of  the  grand  passion,  abounding  in  intense  dramatic  scenes  and  most  interest- 
ing situations.  It  is  a  romance  which  will  rank  among  the  masterpieces  of  historic  fiction." 

— ADVERTISER,  BOSTON. 

**  A  romance  after  the  style  of  Dumas  the  elder,  and  well  worthy  of  being  read  by  thosfl 
who  can  enjoy  stirring  adventures  told  in  true  romantic  fashion.  .  .  .  The  great  person- 
ages of  the  time — Henry  III.  of  Valois,  Henry  IV.,  Rosny,  '  Rambouillet,  Turenne — are 
brought  in  skillfully,  and  the  tragic  and  varied  history  of  the  time  forms  a  splendid  frame  in 
which  to  set  the  picture  of  Marsac's  love  and  courage  .  .  .  the  troublous  days  are  well 
described  and  the  interest  is  genuine  and  lasting,  for  up  to  the  very  end  the  author  manage* 
effects  which  impel  the  reader  to  go  on  with  renewed  curiosity." — THE  NATIOW. 

"  A  genuine  and  admirable  piece  of  work.  ...  The  reader  will  not  turn  many  pagef 
before  he  finds  himself  in  the  grasp  of  a  writer  who  holds  his  attention  to  the  very  last  mo- 
ment of  the  story.  The  spirit  of  adventure  pervades  the  whole  from  beginning  to  end.  .  .  . 

It  may  be  said  that  the  narration  is  a  delightful  love  story.  1'he  interest  of  the  reader 
is  constantly  excited  by  the  development  of  unexpected  turns  in  the  relation  of  the  principal 
lovers.  The  romance  lies  against  a  background  of  history  truly  painted.  ...  The 
descriptions  of  the  court  life  of  the  period  and  of  the  factional  strifes,  divisions,  hatreds  of  the 
age,  are  fine.  .  .  .  This  story  of  those  times  is  worthy  of  a  very  high  place  among  histori- 
cal novels  of  recent  years." — PUBLIC  OPINION. 

"  Bold,  strong,  dashing,  it  is  one  of  the  best  we  have  read  for  many  years.  We  sat  down 
fcr  a  cursory  perusal,  and  ended  by  reading  it  delightedly  through.  .  .  .  Mr.  Weyman 
has  much  of  the  vigor  and  rush  of  incident  of  Dr.  Conan  Doyle,  and  this  book  ranks  worthily 
beside  '  The  White  Company.'  .  .  .  We  very  cordially  recommend  this  book  to  the  jaded 
novel  reader  who  cares  for  manly  actions  more  than  for  morbid  introspection." 

— THE  CHURCHMAN. 

"The  book  it  not  only  good  literature,  it  is  a  'rattling  good  story,'  instinct  with  the 
spirit  of  true  adventure  and  stirring  emotion.  Of  love  and  peril,  intrigue  and  fighting,  there 
Is  plenty,  and  many  scenes  could  not  have  been  bettered.  In  all  his  adventures,  and  the* 
are  many,  Marsac  acts  as  befits  his  epoch  and  his  own  modest  yet  gallant  personality.  Well- 
known  historical  figures  emerge  in  telling  fashion  under  Mr.  Weyman's  discriminating  and 
fascinating  touch." — ATHRN.*UM. 

"  I  cannot  fancy  any  reader,  old  or  young,  not  sharing  with  doughty  Crillon  his  admiration 
for  M.  de  Marsac,  who,  though  no  swashbuckler,  has  a  sword  that  leaps  from  its  scabbard  at  the 
breath  of  insult.  .  .  .  There  are  several  historical  personages  in  the  novel;  there  is,  ol 
course,  a  heroine,  of  great  beauty  and  enterprise;  but  that  true  'Gentleman  of  France,' 
M.  dr  Marsac,  with  hu  perseverance  and  valor,  dominates  them  all. " 

— Mr.  JAMKS  PAYN  in  the  ILLUSTRATED  LONDON  NEWS. 


LONGMANS,  (JEEEBT.  &  00,,  91-93  PIPTH  AVE,,  NEW  YOKE. 


UNDER    THE    RED    ROBE. 

A    ROMANCE. 
BY   STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN, 

AUTHOR  OF  "A  GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE,"  "THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  WOLF,"  ETC 


With   1  2  Full-page  Illustrations  by  R.  Caton  Woodvllle. 
1  2mo,  Linen  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1.25. 


"  Mr.  Weyman  is  a  brave  writer,  who  imagines  fine  things  and  describes  them 
splendidly.  There  is  something  to  interest  a  healthy  mind  on  every  page  of  his  new 
story.  Its  interest  never  flags,  for  his  resource  is  rich,  and  it  is,  moreover,  the  kind  of 
a  story  that  one  cannot  plainly  see  the  end  of  from  Chapter  I.  ...  the  story  reveals 
a  knowledge  of  French  character  and  French  landscape  that  was  surely  never  ac- 
quired at  second  hand.  The  beginning  is  wonderfully  interesting." — NEW  YORK  TIMES. 

"  As  perfect  a  novel  of  the  new  school  of  fiction  as  '  Ivanhoe  '  or  '  Henry  Esmond  ' 
was  of  theirs.  Each  later  story  has  shown  a  marked  advance  in  strength  and  treat- 
ment, and  in  the  last  Mr.  Weyman  .  .  .  demonstrates  that  he  has  no  superior 
among  living  novelists.  .  .  .  There  are  but  two  characters  in  the  story — his  art 
makes  all  other  but  unnoticed  shadows  cast  by  them — and  the  attention  is  so  keenly 
Sxed  upon  one  or  both,  from  the  first  word  to  the  last,  that  we  live  in  their  thoughts 
and  see  the  drama  unfolded  through  their  eyes." — N.  Y.  WORLD. 

"  It  was  bold  to  take  Richelieu  and  his  time  as  a  subject  and  thus  to  challenge  com- 
parison with  Dumas's  immortal  musketeers  ;  but  the  result  justifies  the  boldness.  .  .  . 
The  plot  is  admirably  clear  and  strong,  the  diction  singularly  concise  and  telling,  and 
the  stirring  events  are  so  managed  as  not  to  degenerate  into  sensationalism.  Few 
better  novels  of  adventure  than  this  have  ever  been  written." — OUTLOOK,  NEW  YORK. 

"  A  wonderfully  brilliant  and  thrilling  romance.  .  .  .  Mr.  Weyman  has  a  positive 
talent  for  concise  dramatic  narration.  Every  phrase  tells,  and  the  characters  stano 
out  with  life-like  distinctness.  Some  of  the  most  fascinating  epochs  in  French  history 
have  been  splendidly  illuminated  by  his  novels,  which  are  to  be  reckoned  among  the 
notable  successes  01  later  nineteenth-century  fiction.  This  story  of '  Under  the  Red 
Robe '  is  in  its  way  one  of  the  very  best  things  he  has  done.  It  is  illustrated  with 
vigor  and  appropriateness  from  twelve  full-page  designs  by  R.  Caton  Woodville." 

— BOSTON  BEACON. 

"  It  is  a  skillfully  drawn  picture  of  the  times,  drawn  in  simple  and  transparent 
English,  and  quivering  with  tense  human  feeling  from  the  first  word  to  the  last.  It  is 
not  a  book  that  can  be  laid  down  at  the  middle  of  it.  The  reader  once  caught  in  its 
whirl  can  no  more  escape  from  it  than  a  ship  from  the  maelstrom." 

— PICAYUNE,  NEW  ORLEANS. 

"The  'red  robe'  refers  to  Cardinal  Richelieu,  in  whose  day  the  story  is  laid. 
The  descriptions  of  his  court,  his  jud'cial  machinations  and  ministrations,  his  partial 
defeat,  stand  out  from  the  book  as  vivid  as  flame  against  a  background  of  snow.  For 
the  rest,  the  book  is  clever  and  interesting,  and  overflowing  with  heroic  incident. 
Stanley  Weyman  is  an  author  who  has  apparently  come  to  stay." — CHICAGO  POST. 

"  In  this  story  Mr.  Weyman  returns  to  the  scene  of  his  '  Gentleman  of  France,' 
although  his  new  heroes  are  of  different  mould.  The  book  is  full  of  adventure  and 
characterized  by  a  deeper  study  of  character  than  its  predecessor." 

— WASHINGTON  POST. 

"  Mr.  Weyman  has  quite  topped  his  first  success.  .  .  .  The  author  artfully 
pursues  the  line  on  which  his  happy  initial  venture  was  laid.  We  have  in  Berault,  the 
hero,  a  more  impressive  Marsac ;  an  accomplished  duelist,  telling  the  tale  of  his  own 
adventures,  he  first  repels  and  finally  attracts  us.  He  is  at  once  the  tool  of  Richelieu, 
and  a  man  of  honor.  Here  is  a  noteworthy  romance,  full  of  thrilling  incident  set  down 
by  a  master-hand."— PHILADELPHIA  PRESS. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  TIITH  AYE.,  NEW  YOBK, 


THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

BY   STANLEY   J.   WEYMAN. 

AUTHOR  OF  "A  GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE,"  "UNDER  THE  RED  ROBE,"  "THE  HOUSE  Of 
THE  WOLF,"  "MY  LADY  ROTHA,"  ETC. 


With  Four  Illustrations.     Crown  8vo,  $1.25. 


"  A  delightfully  told  and  exciting  tale  of  the  troublesome  times  of  Bloody  Mary  in  Eng- 
land, and  the  hero — every  inch  a  hero — was  an  important  actor  in  them." 

— NEW  ORLEANS  PICAYUNE. 

"  It  is  a  highly  exciting  tale  from  beginning  to  end,  and  very  well  told." 

— NEW  YORK  HERALD. 

"One  of  the  best  historical  novels  that  we  have  read  for  some  time.  .  .  .  It  is  a 
story  of  the  time  of  Queen  Mary,  and  is  possessed  of  great  dramatic  power.  .  .  .  In  char- 
acter-drawing the  story  is  unexcelled,  and  the  reader  will  follow  the  remarkable  adventures 
of  the  three  fugitives  with  the  most  intense  interest,  which  end  with  the  happy  change  on 
the  accession  of  Elizabeth  to  the  throne." — HOME  JOURNAL,  BOSTON. 

"The  book  presents  a  good  historical  pen-picture  of  the  most  stirring  period  of  English 
civilization,  and  graphically  describes  scenes  and  incidents  which  undoubtedly  happened. 
The  style  is  plain,  and  the  book  well  worthy  of  careful  perusal. 

"  Humor  and  pathos  are  in  the  pages,  and  many  highly  dramatic  scenes  are  described 
with  the  ability  of  a  master  hand." — ITEM,  PHILADELPHIA. 

"Is  worthy  of  careful  reading;  it  is  a  unique,  powerful,  and  very  interesting  story,  the 
scene  of  which  is  laid  alternately  in  England,  the  Netherlands,  and  the  Rhenish  Palatinate ; 
th^  times  are  those  of  Bloody  Mary.  Bishop  Gardiner  plays  a  leading  part  in  this  romance, 
wnich  presents  in  good  shape  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  period." 

— BUFFALO  COMMERCIAL. 

"  A  romance  of  the  olden  days,  full  of  fire  and  life,  with  touches  here  and  there  of  love 
and  politics.  .  .  .  We  have  in  this  book  a  genuine  romance  of  Old  England,  in  which 
soldiers,  chancellors,  dukes,  priests,  and  high-bom  dames  figure.  The  time  is  the  period  of 
the  war  with  Spain.  Knightly  deeds  abound.  The  story  wilj  more  than  interest  the  reader ; 
it  will  charm  him,  and  he  will  scan  the  notices  of  forthcoming  books  for  another  novel  by 
Weyman." — PUBLIC  OPINION,  NEW  YORK. 

"  Its  humor,  its  faithful  observance  of  the  old  English  style  of  writing,  and  its  careful 
adherence  to  historic  events  and  localities,  will  recommend  it  to  all  who  are  fond  of  historic 
novels.  The  scenes  are  laid  in  England  and  in  the  Netherlands  in  the  last  four  years  of 
Queen  Mary's  life."— LITERARY  WORLD,  BOSTON. 

"  Is  distinguished  by  an  uncommon  display  of  the  inventive  faculty,  a  Dumas-like  ingenu- 
ity in  contriving  dangerous  situations,  and  an  enviable  facility  for  extricating  the  persecuted 
hero  from  the  verv  jaws  of  destruction.  The  scene  is  laid  alternately  in  England,  the  Neth- 
erlands, and  the  Rhenish  Palatinate;  the  times  are  those  of  Bloody  Stary.  Rishop  Gardiner 
plays  a  leading  part  in  this  romance,  which  presents  in  good  shape  the  manners  and  customs 
of  the  period.  It  is  useless  dividing  the  story  into  arbitrary  chapters,  for  they  will  not  serve 
to  prevent  the  reader  from  'devouring'  the  '  Story  of  Francis  Cludde,'  from  the  stormy 
beginning  to  its  peaceful  end  in  the  manor-house  at  Colon  End." 

— PUBLIC  LEDGER,  PHILADELPHIA. 

"  This  is  certainly  a  commendable  story,  being  full  of  interest  and  told  with  great 
spirit  .  .  .  It  is  a  capital  book  for  the  young,  and  even  the  less  hardened  nerves  of  the 
middle-aged  will  find  here  no  superfluity  of  gore  or  brutality  to  mar  their  pleasure  in  a 
bright  and  clean  tale  of  prowess  and  adventure." — NATION,  NEW  YORK. 

"  A  well-told  tale,  with  few,  if  any,  anachronisms,  and  a  credit  to  the  clever  talent  of 
Stanley  J.  Weyman." — SPRINGFIELD  REPUBLICAN. 

"  It  is  undeniably  the  best  volume  which  Mr.  Weyman  has  given  us,  both  in  literary 
ityle  and  unceasing  interest." — YALE  LITERARY  MAGAZINE. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  00.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVE.,  NEW  YORK. 


MY  LADY  ROTHA. 

A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS'  WAR. 

BY  STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN. 

AUTHOR  OF  "A  GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE,"  "  UNDER  THE  RED  ROBE," 
"THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  WOLF." 


With  Eight  Illustrations.    Crown  Svo,  $1 .25. 


swill  have  no  hesitation  in  pronouncing  his  just  pub- 


"Readers  of  Mr.  Weyman's  novel 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  TITTS  AVENUE,  NEW  YOKE. 


THE  RED  COCKADE. 

A  NOVEL  OF  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 

BY  STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN. 

AUTHOR  OK  "A  GENTLEMAN  OP  FRANCE,"  "UNDER  THB  RED  ROBB,"  "THK  HOUSE  OF 
THE  WOLF,"  "MY  LADY  ROTHA,"  ETC 

With  48  Illustrations  by  R.   Caton   Woodvllle.    Crown  8vo, 
Cloth,  ornamental,  $  1 .50. 


"Deserves  a  place  among  the  best  historical  fiction  of  the  latter  part  of  this  century.  . 
.  .  The  gradual  maddening  of  the  people  by  agitators,  the  rising  of  those  who  have  re- 
venges to  feed,  the  burnings  and  the  outrages  are  described  in  a  masterly  way.  The  attack 
on  the  castle  of  St.  Alais,  the  hideous  death  of  the  steward,  the  looting  of  the  great  building, 
and  the  escape  of  the  young  lovers — these  incidents  are  told  in  that  breathless  way  which 
Weyman  has  made  familiar  in  other  stories.  It  is  only  when  one  has  finished  the  book  and 
has  gone  back  to  reread  certain  passages  that  the  dramatic  power  and  the  sustained  passion 
of  these  scenes  are  clearly  felt" — SAN  FRANCISCO  CHRONICLE. 

"  '  The  Red  Cockade,'  a  story  of  the  French  Revolution,  shows,  in  the  first  place,  care- 
ful study  and  deliberate,  well-directed  effort  Mr.  Weyman  .  .  .  has  caught  the  spirit 
of  the  times.  .  .  .  The  book  is  brimful  of  romantic  incidents.  It  absorbs  one's  interest 
from  the  first  page  to  the  last ;  it  depicts  human  character  with  truth,  and  it  causes  the  good 
and  brave  to  triumph.  In  a  word,  it  is  real  romance." — SYRACUSE  POST. 

"We  have  in  this  novel  a  powerful  but  not  an  exaggerated  study  of  the  spirit  of  the  high 
born  and  the  low  born  which  centuries  of  aristocratic  tyranny  and  democratic  suffering  en- 
gendered in  France.  It  is  history  which  we  read  here,  and  not  romance,  but  history  which 
is  so  perfectly  written,  so  veritable,  that  it  blends  with  the  romantic  associations  in  which  it 
is  set  as  naturally  as  the  history  in  Shakespeare's  plays  blends  with  the  poetry  which  vital 
izes  and  glorifies  it." — MAIL  AND  EXPRESS,  NEW  YORK. 

"  It  will  be  scarcely  more  than  its  due  to  say  that  this  will  always  rank  among  Weyman's 
best  work.  In  the  troublous  times  of  1789  in  France  its  action  is  laid,  and  with  marvellous 
skill  the  author  has  delineated  the  most  striking  types  of  men  and  women  who  made  the  Rev- 
olution so  terrible." — NEW  YORK  WORLD. 

" '  The  Red  Cockade '  is  a  novel  of  events,  instinct  with  the  spirit  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury and  full  of  stirring  romance.  The  tragic  period  of  the  French  Revolution  forms  a  frame 
in  which  to  set  the  adventures  of  Adrien  du  Pont,  Vicomte  de  Saux,  and  the  part  he  plays 
in  those  days  of  peril  has  a  full  measure  of  dramatic  interest.  .  .  .  Mr.  Weyman  has 
evidently  studied  the  history  of  the  revolution  with  a  profound  realization  of  its  intense 
tragedy." — DETROIT  FREE  PRESS. 


v      '      u 

great  bravery  he  ,*M.V..  ^  ...  ..—  — -  -  -  — •  .  ( 

background  is  made  vivid  and  convincing— the  frenzy  caused  by  the  fall  of  the  Hastile,  the 
attacks  of  the  mob,  the  defence  and  strategy  of  the  nobility,  all  being  described  with  dra- 
matic skill  and  verisimilitude.  It  is  a  fascinating  and  absorbing  tale,  which  carries  the  reader 
with  it.  and  impresses  itself  upon  the  mind  as  only  a  novel  of  unusual  merit  and  powei 
can  do." — BOSTON  BEACON. 


and  admirablv  portrayed.     .     .     .     it  is  one  o 

of  the  most  delightfully  freighted  with  suggestion."—  CHICAGO  INTERIOR. 


evolv 

best. 

roances  of  the  season.  "^BOSTON  HERALD. 

"  We  are  greatly  mistaken  if  the  '  Red  Cockade '  does  not  take  rank  with  the  very 
best  book  that  Mr.  Weyman  has  written."— SCOTSMAN. 

LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVE,,  NEW  YOEK. 


SHREWSBURY. 

A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  TIME  OF  WILLIAM  AND  MARY. 
BY  STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN. 

AUTHOR  OF  "  A  GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE,"  "  UNDER  THE  RED  ROBE,"  "  THE  HOUSE  OK  THK 
WOLF,"  "MY  LADY  ROTHA,"  ETC. 


With  24  Illustrations  by  Claude  A.  Shepperson.    Crown  8vo, 
Cloth,  ornamental,  $  1 .50. 


"  Mr.  Stanley  Weyman  has  written  a  rattling  good  romantic  story  that  is  in  every  way 
worthy  of  the  author  of  the  ever-delightful  '  Gentleman  of  France.'  " — NEW  YORK  SUN. 

"Considered  as  fictive  literature,  the  novel  is  an  achievement  worthy  of  high  .  .  _  . 
praise.  The  characters  are  projected  with  admirable  distinctness ;  the  whole  story  and  its 
incidents  are  well  imagined  and  described  ;  the  reader,  while  he  cannot  repress  his  contempt 
for  the  supposed  narrator,  is  always  interested  in  the  story,  and  there  is  an  abundance  of 
dramatic  action.  Mr.  Weyman  has  caught  the  spirit  of  the  narrative  style  of  the  period 
without  endeavoring,  evidently,  to  adhere  to  the  vocabulary  and  diction,  or  peculiarities  of 
syntax.  .  .  .  Again  we  see  that  Mr.  Weyman  has  no  superior  among  living  writers  of 
romance." — PHILADELPHIA  PKESS. 

"  Turning  aside  from  mediaeval  French  scenes,  Stanley  J.  Weyman  takes  up  in  'Shrews- 
bury' an  English  theme,  and  lie  weaves  from  the  warp  and  woof  of  history  and  fancy  a  vivid, 
unique,  close-textured  and  enthralling  romance.  .  .  .  Mr.  Weyman  has  produced  in 
'  Shrewsbury '  a  novel  that  all  admirers  of  his  former  books  will  be  eager  to  read,  and  that 
v/ill  win  for  him  new  suffrages.  The  illustrations  are  drawn  with  skill  and  appreciation." 

— BEACON,  BOSTON. 

"  '  Shrewsbury '  is  a  magnificent  confirmation  of  Mr.  Weyman's  high  estate  in  the  world 
of  fiction. 

Again  he  has  proved  in  this,  his  latest  novel,  that  the  romantic  treatment  is  capable, 
under  a  masterly  hand,  of  uniting  the  thrill  of  imagination  with  the  dignity  of  real  life.  His 
characters  aro  alive,  human,  unforgetable.  His  scenes  are  unhackneyed,  dramatic,  power- 
ful. The  action  is  sustained  and  consistent,  sweeping  one's  interest  along  irresistibly  to  a 
denouement  at  once  logical  and  climactic.  And  through  it  all  there  glows  that  literary  charm 
which  makes  his  stories  live  even  as  those  of  Scott  and  Dumas  live.  .  .  . 

The  whole  novel  is  a  work  of  genuine  literary  art,  fully  confirming  the  prediction  that 
when  the  author  of  'A  Gentleman  of  France'  once  began  to  deal  with  the  historical  materials 
of  his  own  country  he  would  clinch  his  title  to  be  ranked  among  the  greatest  of  romantic 
writers." — CHICAGO  TRIBUNE. 

"Aside  from  the  story,  which  is  remarkably  well  told,  this  book  is  of  value  for  its  fine 
pen  pictures  of  William  of  Orange  and  his  leading  courtiers — a  story  of  absorbing  interest, 
but  it  differs  materially  from  any  of  his  other  works.  The  best  thing  in  the  book  is  the 
sketch  of  Ferguson,  the  spy,  and  of  the  remarkable  hold  which  he  obtained  over  prominent 
men  by  means  of  his  cunning  and  his  malignancy.  He  dominates  every  scene  in  which  he 
appears.  Some  of  these  scenes  have  rarely  been  excelled  in  historical  fiction  for  intensity  of 
interest.  Those  who  have  not  read  it,  and  who  are  fond  of  the  romance  of  adventure,  will 
find  it  fulfils  Mr.  Balfour's  recent  definition  of  the  ideal  novel— something  which  makes  us 
forget  for  the  time  all  worry  and  care,  and  transports  us  to  another  and  more  picturesque  age." 

— SAN  FRANCISCO  CHRONICLE. 

"  A  most  readable  and  entertaining  story.  .  .  .  Ferguson  and  Smith,  the  plotters, 
the  mothers  of  the  duke  and  Mary  the  courageous,  who  became  the  wife  of  Price,  all  seem 
very  real,  and  with  the  other  characters  and  the  adventures  which  they  go  through  make  up 
an  interest-holding  book  which  can  be  honestly  recommended  to  every  reader  of  fiction." 

— BOSTON  TIMES. 

"  A  romance  written  in  the  author's  best  vein.  The  character  drawing  is  particularly 
admirable,  and  Richard  Price,  Ferguson,  King  William  and  Brown  stand  out  in  strong  relief 
and  with  the  most  expressive  vitality.  The  storv  is  also  interesting  and  contains  many 
strong  scenes,  and  one  follows  the  adventures  of  the  various  characters  with  unabated  in- 
terest from  first  page  to  last." — EVENING  GAZETTE,  BOSTON. 

LONGMANS,  GEEEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AYE,,  NEW  YOKE. 


THE    CASTLE    INN. 

A   ROMANCE. 

BY  STANLEY   J.  WEYMAN. 

AUTHOR  OF  "A  GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE,"  "UNDER  THE  RED  ROBE, 
"SHREWSBURY,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


With  six  full-page  Illustrations  by  Walter  Appleton  Clark. 
Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  ornamental,  $  I  .50. 


"A  tale  which  is  full  of  old-world  romance  and  adventure.  It  has  a  strong  flavor 
of  the  under  life  in  England  when  George  the  Third  was  young,  when  sign-posts 
served  also  as  gibbets,  when  travel  was  by  coach  and  highwaymen  were  many,  when 
men  drank  deep  and  played  high.  There  are  plenty  of  stirring  scenes  along  the  way, 
plenty  of  treachery  and  fighting  at  cross-purposes  which  lead  to  intricate  and  dramatic 
situations.  The  heroine's  charms  recall  Mile,  de  Cochefpret  in  '  Under  the  Red  Robe,1 
and  she  proves  herself  a  maid  of  spirit  through  all  the  mishaps  which  befall  her.  One 
of  the  most  notable  things  about  '  The  Castle  Inn  '  is  the  way  in  which  Mr.  Weyman 
has  caught  the  spirit  of  the  age,  and  manages  to  imbue  his  readers  with  its  feefing." 

—DETROIT  FREE  PRESS. 

"  .  .  .  .  In  '  The  Castle  Inn,'  this  master  of  romance  tells  a  story  of  the  time 
of  George  III.  in  the  third  person.  ...  A  story  of  rapid  action,  with  a  swinging 
succession  of  moving  incidents  that  keep  the  reader  incessantly  on  theguivive.  It 
deals  with  human  emotions  with  directness  and  thoughtfulness." 

—THE  PRESS,  PHILA..  PA. 

"...  '  The  Castle  Inn  '  .  .  .  is  so  fresh  and  entertaining  that  it  takes  one 
back  to  'A  Gentleman  of  France.'  and  other  good  things  this  author  did  several  years 
ago.  Mr.  Weyman,  in  looking  about  for  an  appropriate  setting  for  his  romance,  very 
wisely  eschews  scenes  and  people  of  to-day,  ana  chooses,  instead,  England  a  hundred 
and  thirty  years  ago,  when  George  III.  was  on  her  throne,  and  living  was  a  far  more 
picturesque  business  than  it  is  now.  Beautiful  maidens  could  be  kidnapped  then; 
daring  lovers  faced  pistols  and  swords  in  behalf  of  their  sweethearts,  and  altogether 
the  pace  was  a  lively  one.  Mr.  Weyman  knows  how  to  use  the  attractive  colorings  to 
the  best  advantage  possible."— CHICAGO  EVENING  POST. 

"...  a  piece  of  work  which  is  infinitelv  better  than  anything  else  which  he 
has  accomplished.  He  has  treated  the  eighteenth  century,  the  time  of  the  elder  Pitt, 
with  a  grasp  and  a  sympathy  that  presage  a  greater  reputation  for  this  novelist  than 
he  has  enjoyed  hitherto.  The  story  itself  is  worth  the  telling,  but  the  great  thing  is 
the  way  it  is  told."— NEW  YORK  SUN. 

"...  he  has  a  firm  grasp  of  his  period  in  this  book,  and  revives  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  last  century  in  England,  with  its  shallow  graces  and  profound  brutality, 
coherently  and  even  with  eloquence  .  .  .  it  is  a  most  interesting  story,  which 
should  please  the  reader  of  romantic  tastes  and  sustain  the  author's  reputation." 

— NEW  YORK  TRIBUNE. 

"The  characters  in  the  book  are  all  entertaining,  and  many  of  them  are  droll, 
while  a  few,  like  the  conscientious  Mr.  Fishwick.  the  attorney,  and  the  cringing 
parasite,  Mr.  Thomasson.  are,  in  their  own  way,  masterpieces  of  character  study. 
Take  it  all  in  all,  '  The  Castle  Inn  '  is  in  many  ways  the  best  work  which  has  yet  come 
from  Mr.  Weyman's  pen." — COMMERCIAL  ADVERTISER.  NEW  YORK. 

"  Mr.  Weyman  has  surpassed  himself  in  '  The  Castle  Inn.'  From  cover  to  cover 
the  book  teems  with  adventure  and  romance,  and  the  love  episode  is  delicious.  Julia 
will  live  as  one  of  the  most  graceful  heroines  in  the  literature  of  pur  time.  .  .  . 
We  get  an  excellent  idea  of  the  doings  of  fashionable  society  in  the  time  when  George 
III.  was  young,  and  altogether  the  volume  can  be  heartily  recommended  as  the  best 
thing  that  Weyman  has  done,  and,  in  the  opinion  of  one,  at  least,  the  most  fascinating 
book  of  the  season. "—HOME  JOURNAL,  NEW  YORK. 


LONGMANS,  GBEEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVE.,  NEW  YORK, 


THE  JEWEL  OF  YNYS  GALON 

BEING  A   HITHERTO   UNPRINTED  CHAPTER   IN 
THE   HISTORY  OF  THE  SEA   ROVERS. 

BY  OWEN   RHOSCOMYL. 


With  1  2  Illustrations  by  Lancelot  Speed- 
Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $  1 .25. 


"  The  tale  is  exceptionally  well  told  ;  the  descriptive  passages  are  strong  and  viv- 
id without  being  over-elaborated  ;  and  the  recital  of  fights  and  adventures  on  sea  and 
land  is  thrilling,  without  leading  to  any  excess  of  horrors.  The  characters  in  the  book 
are  not  all  villians,  but  the  progress  of  the  narrative  is  lighted  up  by  the  ideals  and 
strivings  of  brave  and  honorable  men.  The  book  is  certainly  a  most  attractive  addi- 
tion to  fiction  of  adventure,  for  it  shows  a  fine  degree  of  imagination  on  the  part  of  the 
author.  A  glance  at  the  illustrations  by  Lancelot  Speed  will  alone  be  enough  to  incite 
a  reading  of  the  story  from  beginning  to  end." — THE  BEACON,  BOSTON. 

"  It  is  a  work  of  genius — of  the  romantic-realistic  school.  The  story  is  one  of 
pirates  and  buried  treasure  in  an  island  off  the  coast  of  Wales,  and  so  well  is  it  done 
that  it  fascinates  the  reader,  putting  him  under  an  hypnotic  spell,  lasting  long  after  the 
book  has  been  laid  aside.  It  is  dedicated  to  'every  one  whose  blood  rouses  at  a  tale 
of  tall  fights  and  reckless  adventure,'  to  men  and  boys  alike,  yet  there  will  be  keener 
appreciation  by  the  boys  of  larger  growth,  whose  dreams  '  of  buried  treasure  and  of 
one  day  discovering  some  hoard  whereby  to  become  rich  beyond  imagination  '  have 
become  dim  and  blurred  in  the  '  toil  and  struggle  for  subsistence.'  '  The  Jewel  of  Ynys 
Galon'  is  one  of  the  great  books  of  1895  and  will  live  long." — THE  WORLD,  NEW  YORK. 

"  It  is  a  splendid  story  of  the  sea,  of  battle  and  hidden  treasure.  This  picture  of 
the  times  of  the  sea  rovers  is  most  skillfully  drawn  in  transparent  and  simple  English, 
and  it  holds  from  cover  to  cover  the  absorbed  interest  of  the  reader." 

— PRESS,  PHILADELPHIA. 

"  It  is  a  story  after  the  heart  of  both  man  and  boy.  There  are  no  dull  moments  in 
it,  and  we  find  ourselves  impatient  to  get  on,  so  anxious  are  we  to  see  what  the  next 
\urn  in  the  events  is  to  bring  forth ;  and  when  we  come  to  the  end  we  exclaim  in 
sorrow,  "  Is  that  all?  "  and  begin  to  turn  back  the  leaves  and  re-read  some  of  the  most 
exciting  incidents. 

Owen  Rhoscomyl  has  just  the  talents  for  writing  books  of  this  kind,  and  they  are 
worth  a  dozen  of  some  of  the  books  of  to-day  where  life  flows  sluggishly  on  in  a  draw- 
ing-room. When  the  author  writes  another  we  want  to  know  of  it." — TIMES,  BOSTON. 

"The  style  of  this  thrilling  story  is  intensely  vivid  and  dramatic,  but  there  is 
nothing  in  it  of  the  cheap  sensational  order.  It  is  worthy  a  place  among  the  classics 
ibr  boys." — ADVERTISER,  BOSTON. 

"  The  present  school  of  romantic  adventure  has  produced  no  more  strikingly  im- 
aginative story  than  this  weird  tale  of  Welsh  pirates  in  the  eighteenth  century.  .  .  . 
A  most  enthralling  tale,  .  .  .  told  with  great  artistic  finish  and  with  intense  spirit. 
It  may  be  recommended  without  reserve  to  every  love':  of  this  class  of  fiction." 

— TIMES,  PHILADELPHIA. 


to  have  happened,  and  that  is  enough  for  us.  If  you  like  '  Treasure  Island '  and 
'Kidnapped'  and  the  'White  Company'  and  '  Francis  Cludde'  and  '  Lorna  Doone,' 
get  '  The  Jewel  of  Ynys  Galon  '  and  read  it.  You  will  not  be  disappointed." 

— GAZETTE,  COLORADO  SPRINGS,  COL. 

"  Our  own  interest  in  the  book  led  us  to  read  it  at  a  sitting  that  went  far  into  the 
night.  The  old  Berserker  spirit  is  considerably  abroad  in  these  pages,  and  the  blood 
coursed  the  faster  as  stirring  incident  followed  desperate  situation  and  daring  enter- 
prise."— LITERARY  WORLD,  LONDON. 


LONGMANS,  GBEEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIPTH  AVE.,  NEW  YOKE. 


BATTLEMENT  AND  TOWER, 

A   ROMANCE. 

BY  OWEN  RHOSCOMYL, 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  JEWEL  OF  YNYS  GALON." 


With    Frontispiece    by    R.    Caton   Woodvllle.       I2mo,   Cloth, 
Ornamental,  $1.25. 


"  It  is  a  rare  tale  of  the  wars  of  the  Commonwealth.  The  hero,  Howel,  is  a  young 
Welsh  lord  whose  father  gives  him  his  hereditary  sword  and  shield,  and  sends  him  to 
battle  for  the  king.  His  adventures  in  love  and  war  are  intensely  fascinating,  and  the 
reader  puts  down  the  book  with  extreme  reluctance.  The  author  has  carefully  studied 
the  history  of  the  times,  and,  besides  being  a  thrilling  tale,  his  story  is  a  charming 
picture  of  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  day.  It  is  a  book  well  worth  reading." 

— NEW  ORLEANS  PICAYUNE. 

"...  a  powerful  romance  by  Owen  Rhoscomyl  of  the  swashbuckling  days  in 
North  Wales,  when  the  Roundheads  warred  against  the  Cavaliers,  and  Charles  I.  ot 
England  lost  his  head,  both  metaphorically  and  literally.  .  .  .  The  picturesque 
and  virile  style  of  the  author,  and  the  remarkable  power  he  displays  in  his  character 
drawing,  place  his  book  among  the  notable  pieces  of  fiction  of  the  year.  There  is 
plenty  of  lighting,  hard  riding,  love-making,  and  blood-letting  in  the  story,  but  the 
literary  touch  given  to  his  work  by  the  author  places  his  product  far  above  the  average 
of  the  many  tales  of  like  character  that  are  now  striving  to  satisfy  the  present  demand 
for  fiction  that  has  power  without  prurience." — WORLD,  NEW  YORK. 

"  There  is  a  vein  of  very  pretty  romance  which  runs  through  the  more  stirring 
scenes  of  battle  and  of  siege.  The  novel  is  certainly  to  be  widely  read  by  those  who 
love  the  tale  of  a  well-fought  battle  and  of  gallant  youth  in  the  days  when  men  carved 
their  way  to  fame  and  fortune  with  a  sword." — ADVERTISER,  BOSTON. 

"...  a  rattling  story  of  adventure,  privation,  and  peril  in  the  wild  Welsh 
inarches  during  the  English  civil  war.  ...  In  this  stirring  narrative  Mr.  Rhos- 
comyl has  packed  away  a  great  deal  of  entertainment  for  people  who  like  exciting 
fiction."— COMMERCIAL  ADVERTISER,  NEW  YORK. 

"  There  is  a  flavor  of  old  world  chivalry  in  his  tempestuous  wooing  of  winsome, 
imperious  Barbara,  a  charming  love  idyl.  .  .  .  The  hot  blood  of  the  Welshman 
leads  him  into  many  and  diverse  dangers,  yet  so  gallant  is  he,  so  quick  of  wit,  and 
with  hand  ever  on  sword  hilt,  that  one  accompanies  him  with  unflagging  attention.  .  .  . 
The  scenes  of  the  story  are  historic,  and  the  author's  fertile  and  ingenious  imagination 
has  constructed  a  thrilling  tale  in  which  the  dramatic  situations  crowd  thick  and  fast 
upon  each  other." — FREE  PRESS,  DETROIT. 

"  Owen  Rhoscomyl,  who  wrote  an  excellent  tale  when  he  penned  '  The  Jewel  of 
Yuys  Galon,'  has  followed  it  with  another,  different  in  kind  but  its  equal  in 
degree.  .  .  .  Deals  with  an  entirely  different  phase  of  Welsh  legend  from  his 
former  story,  for  it  enters  the  domain  of  history.  ...  It  is  full  of  merit,  and  is 
entitled  to  pass  muster  as  one  of  the  successful  novels  of  the  season.  .  .  .  The  plot 
is  involved,  and  there  is  a  mystery  in  it  which  is  not  wrought  out  until  the  concluding 
chapters.  .  .  .  The  story  will  appeal  strongly  to  the  lover  of  romance  and  ao- 
venture." — BROOKLYN  EAGLE. 

"  He  calls  his  book  a  '  mosaic,'  and  if  such  it  be  its  stones  are  the  quaint  customs, 
strange  ways,  and  weird  legends  of  the  Welsh,  welded  by  strong  and  clear  diction  and 
colored  with  the  pigments  of  a  brilliant  fancy.  Gay  pleasures,  stern  war,  and  true  love 
are  powerfully  portrayed,  rivalling  each  other  in  the  interest  of  the  reader.  And 
though  the  heroes  and  their  castles  have  l^ng  been  buried  beneath  the  dust  of  time, 
this  writer  sends  an  electric  current  through  his  pages  making  every  actor  and  his  sur- 
roundings alive  again.  He  brings  each  successive  phase  of  adventure,  love,  or  battle, 
before  the  imagination,  clad  in  language  that  impresses  itself  upon  the  memory  and 
makes  the  book  fascinating."— REPUBLICAN,  DENVKR. 

"  His  story  is  a  stirring  one,  full  of  events,  alive  with  action,  and  gilded  with  sen- 
timent of  romance."— COURIER,  BOSTON. 

LONGMANS,  GBEEN,  &  00.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVE.,  NEW  YORK. 


FOR  THE  WHITE  ROSE  OF  ARNO 

A  Story  of  the  Jacobite  Rising  of  1  745 
BY  OWEN   RHOSCOMYL 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  JEWEL  OF  YNYS  GALON,"  "  BATTLEMENT  AND  TOWER." 

ETC. 


Crown  8vo,  cloth,  ornamental,  $1.25 


"  His  'Jewel  of  Ynys  Galon,'  was  a  splendid  story  of  piracy  on  the  Welsh  coast. 
His  '  Battlement  and  Tower  '  was  a  good  story  of  Prince  Rupert's  day.  ...  A  third 
romance,  '  For  the  White  Rose  of  Arno,'  a  story  of  the  Jacobite  rising  of  1745,  is  pic- 
turesque and  exciting.  It  can  be  recommended  to  every  lover  of  a  fine  romantic  melo- 
drama."—EXPRESS,  BUFFALO,  N.Y. 

"  There  are  plenty  of  stirring  events  in  the  story,  love,  treachery,  and  revenge 
fighting  at  cross-purposes.  One  of  the  most  graphic  descriptions  is  that  of  the  wed- 
ding ofthehero  and  heroine.  Mr.  Rhoscomyl  has  a  picturesque  imagination,  and  he 
paints  vividly  with  bold,  true  strokes.  .  .  .  The  author  has  studied  the  period  of 
which  he  writes  with  great  care.  He  has  not  allowed  his  imagination  to  run  away 
with  historical  facts,  and  the  book  will  appeal  not  only  to  lovers  of  romance  and  adven- 
ture, but  to  students  of  English  history." — GAZETTE,  COLORADO  SPRINGS. 

"The  'White  Rose  of  Arno'  will  delight  all  lovers  of  a  good  romantic  novel." 

— EAGLE,  BROOKLYN,  N.Y. 

"...  in  this  tale  we  are  given  a  most  stirring  picture  of  the  time  of  Charles 
Edward,  the  Pretender,  and  his  devoted  supporters.  Nearly  all  of  the  incidents  take 
place  amid  the  hills  and  vales  of  beautiful  Wales,  and  the  contrast  between  scenery 
and  wild  human  passions  does  much  to  heighten  the  effect  of  the  story,  which  is  very 
well  told.  The  author  is  a  Welshman,  and  the  scenes  he  depicts  one  feels  still  burn 
within  his  soul ;  hence  his  narrative  is  in  the  highest  degree  animated  and  forceful." 

— EVENING  TRANSCRIPT,  BOSTON. 

"...  The  story  never  lags  for  a  moment,  nor  sags  from  its  pitch  of  high 
heroism  .  .  .  Some  of  the  scenes  rival  those  others,  well  known,  and,  indeed, 
famous  in  '  David  Balfour,'  and  '  Kidnapped.'  .  .  .  It  is  a  splendid  story.  .  .  . 
Prince  Charles  figures  more  as  a  shadow  in  the  background  than  a  leader,  but  he  im- 
presses himself  vividly  as  a  great  personal  inspiration." — TIMES-HERALD,  CHICAGO. 

"  Owen  Rhoscomyl  has  already  written  some  rare  stories  of  the  wars  of  the  Com- 
monwealth that  have  met  with  a  splendid  showing  of  practical  appreciation  by  a 
world-wide  circle  of  readers.  This  latest  novel  by  the  pleasing  Welsh  writer  is  one  of 
the  most  powerful  romances  that  have  emanated  from  his  pen,  and  will  doubtless  re- 
ceive as  graceful  a  welcome  to  fiction  literature  as  his  previous  efforts  have  done.  It 
is  a  stirring  story  of  Wales  when  the  Roundheads  were  warring  against  the  cavaliers, 
and  Charles  I  of  England  lost  his  head  and  his  coveted  throne.  .The  story  is  brimful 
of  fighting,  ol  hard  travel  and  riding,  and  old-time  love  making,  and  the  flavor  of  old 
world  chivalry  in  the  tenderer  portions  of  the  novel  is  charming  and  complete.  With 
the  pen  of  a  realist,  the  author  hurries  his  readers  back  to  live  over  the  dead,  old  wars, 
to  dwell  in  strange  Welsh  castles  that  long  ago  crumbled  into  dust,  and  to  view  the 
history  and  romances  of  those  early  days  as  something  tangible  with  our  own  exist- 
ences. The  style  is  always  active,  virile  and  picturesque,  and  there  is  not  a  dull  or 
tame  chapter  in  the  book." — COURIER,  BOSTON. 

"The  story  is  told  with  spirit,  and  holds  the  attention  without  effort.  The  action 
is  swift,  the  episodes  stirring,  the  character  drawing  admirable,  and  the  style  good. 
The  ultimate  defeat  of  the  Pretender,  and  the  final  denouement  are  tragic  in  their 
intensity,  and  powerfully  pictured." — BROOKLYN  TIMES. 

"  This  is  a  really  stirring  story,  full  of  wild  adventure,  yet  having  an  atmosphere 
of  historic  truthfulness,  and  conveying  incidentally  a  good  deal  of  information  that  is 
evidently  based  upon  fresh  study."— TIMES,  PHILADELPHIA. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  00,,  91-93  PITTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YOKK, 


FLOTSAM. 

THE    STUDY    OF   A    LIFE. 

BY  HENRY  SETON   MERRIMAN, 

AUTHOR    OF     "WITH     EDGED     TOOLS,"     "THE     SOWERS,"     ETC. 

With    Frontispiece   and   Vignette   by    H.   G.   MASSEY. 
1  2mo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1.25. 


"  The  scene  of  this  thoroughly  interesting  book  is  laid  at  the  time  of  the  great 
Indian  mutiny  of  1857,  and  the  chapters  devoted  to  that  terrible  episode  in  the  history 
of  English  rule  in  India  are  among  the  most  interesting  in  the  volume,  the  capture  of 
Delhi  in  particular  being  graphically  described." — HERALD,  ONEONTA,  N.  Y. 

"  It  is  a  powerful  study." — CINCINNATI  COMMERCIAL  GAZETTE. 

"  One  of  the  strongest  novels  of  the  season." — BOSTON  ADVERTISER. 

"It  is  decidedly  a  novel  worth  reading.1'— NEW  ENGLAND  MAGAZINE. 

"...  From  first  to  last  our  interest  in  the  dramatic  development  of  the  plot  is 
never  allowed  to  flag.  '  Flotsam  '  will  amply  sustain  the  reputation  which  Mr. 
Merriman  has  won." — CHARLESTON  NEWS  AND  COURIER. 

"  It  is  a  rather  stirring  story,  dealing  with  breezy  adventures  in  the  far  East,  and 
sketching  in  strong  outlines  some  very  engaging  phases  of  romance  in  India  not  down 
in  Mr.  Kipling's  note-books." — INDEPENDENT,  NEW  YORK. 

"  It  is  a  novel  of  strong,  direct,  earnest  purpose,  which  begins  well  in  a  literary 
sense  and  ends  better." — SUN,  BALTIMORE. 

"  A  brilliant  gift  for  characterization  and  dramatic  effect  put  his  novels  among 
the  best  of  the  season  for  entertainment,  and,  to  no  small  extent,  for  instruction." 

—DIAL,  CHICAGO. 

"  Mr.  Merriman  can  write  a  good  story  ;  he  proved  that  in  '  The  Sowers,'  and  he 
shows  it  anew  in  this.  .  .  .  The  story  is  a  strong  one  and  told  with  freshness  and 
simple  realism." — CURRENT  LITERATURE,  NEW  YORK. 

"  His  story  is  remarkably  well  told."— HERALD,  COLUMBIA,  Mo. 

"  It  is  a  novel  written  with  a  purpose,  yet  it  is  entirely  free  from  preaching  or 
moralizing.  The  young  man,  Harry  Wylam,  whose  career  from  childhood  to  the 
prime  of  manhood  is  described,  is  a  bright,  daring,  and  lovable  character,  who  starts 
with  every  promise  of  a  successful  life,  but  whose  weakness  of  will,  and  love  of 
pleasure,  wreck  his  bright  hopes  midway.  The  author  shows  unusual  skill  in  dealing 
with  a  subject  which  in  less  discreet  hands  might  have  been  an  excuse  for  morbidity." 

—BOSTON  BEACON. 

"  A  story  of  lively  and  romantic  incident.  .  .  .  His  story  is  remarkably  well 
told." — NEW  YORK  SUN. 

"The  story  is  full  of  vigorous  action    .    .    .    and  interesting." 

— PUBLIC  OPINION. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  00.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YOBK. 


THE    PRINCESS   DESIREE 

A    ROMANCE 
BY  CLEMENTINA  BLACK 

AUTHOR  OF  "AN  AGITATOR,"  "  MISS  FALKLAND,"  ETC. 


With  8  Full-page  Illustrations  by  John  Williamson 
i2mo,  Linen  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1.25 


"The  reader  who  begins  this  very  fascinating  tale  will  feel  bound  to  finish  it.  . 
.  .  .  The  story  runs  naturally  in  a  highly  romantic  vein.  It  is,  however,  so  brightly 
and  choicely  written  and  is  so  interesting  throughout,  as  to  be  to  the  reader  a  source 
of  real  delight."— ABERDEEN  DAILY  FKEB  PRESS. 

"  Miss  Black  may  be  congratulated  on  achieving  a  distinct  success  and  furnishing 
a  thoroughly  enjoyable  tale.  — ATHENAEUM,  LONDON. 

"  Is  a  romantic  story  of  the  adventures  of  the  heiress  to  a  pretty  German  princi- 
pality. It  has  a  pure  love  story,  and  is  written  with  spirit." — OUTLOOK,  NEW  YORK. 

"  There  is  plenty  of  intrigue  and  royal  family  affairs,  and  those  who  love  a  his- 
torical novel  will  enjoy  this  one.  It  has  the  air  of  being  founded  on  facts." — COM- 
MERCIAL TRIBUNE,  CINCINNATI. 

"  Once  in  a  while  there  appears  a    novel  that,  without  manifesting  any  special 

originality,  yet  leaves  with  its  reader  a  sense  of  satisfaction  that  many  more  im- 

lortant  works  fail  to  give.     Such  a  story  is  the   "  Princess   Desire'e. — BUFFALO 


iXPRESS. 


"  The  story  is  thoroughly  satisfactory,  it  contains  little  sentiment  but  many  inter- 
esting situations,  and  much  forceful  action.  It  is  told  with  a  directness  that  attracts 
in  these  busy  days  and  is  an  admirable  picture  of  French  and  German  intrigue.  It  is 
well  illustrated  and  bound." — BOSTON  TIMES. 

"  This  readable  novel may  be  read  at  a  sitting  with  unflagging  in- 
terest."— PUBLIC  LEDGER,  PHILADELPHIA. 

"  The  plot  is  exceedingly  well  managed,  in  spite  of  its  demands  upon  the  credulity 
of  the  reader,  and  the  author's  style  is  terse,  clear  cut,  and  piquant.  The  eight  full- 
page  illustrations  by  John  Williamson  are  cleverly  done." — BOSTON  BEACON. 

"A  brightly  written  story,  full  of  unusual  adventure  of  a  quasi-political  nature. 
.  .  .  Is  entertaining  reading  throughout." — PRESS,  PHILADELPHIA. 

"A  vivacious  novel." — PUBLIC  OPINION,  NEW  YORK. 


TON.  N.  J. 

"The  Princess  Desire'e  ....  will  win  universal  praise.  It  is  one  of  the 
most  charming  love  stories  that  have  been  published  of  late  years,  pure  and  optimistic, 
reminding  us,  but  by  no  means  as  a  servile  imitation,  of  another  lady,  the  romantic 
'  Princess  Osra  '  whose  heart,  or  want  of  heart,  was  so  ably  described  by  Mr. 
Anthony  Hope.  —STAR,  MONTREAL. 

"  Except  that  there  is  nothing  in  it  that  is  either  supernatural  or  essentially  im- 
probable, it  has  much  of  the  charm  of  a  fairy  tale.  The  style  is  pure  and  the  story 
dramatic  with  the  additional  attraction  of  eight  or  ten  well  executed  illustrations. — 
SAN  FRANCISCO  CHRONICLE. 

"  There  is  enough  exciting  interest  in  '  The  Princess  De'sire'e  '  to  make  one  wish 

to  read  it  through  as  soon  as  possible There  is  an  undesirable  charm  in 

the  narrative." — NEW  YORK  COMMERCIAL  ADVERTISER. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVE.,  NEW  YORK 


WAYFARING    MEN, 

BY   EDNA   LYALL, 

AUTHOR  OF  "DONOVAN,"  "WE  TWO,"  "DOREEN,"  ETC. 


Crown  8vo,  cloth,  ornamental,  $1.5O. 


"...  We  take  up  Edna  Lyall's  last  novel  .  .  .  with  high  expectations,  and 
we  are  not  disappointed.  Miss  Bayly  has  acquired  a  wonderful  insight  into  human  nature, 
and  this  last  production  of  her  pen  is  full  of  the  true  portrayals  of  life.  .  .  .  The  whole 
book  is  a  whiff  of  '  caller  air '  in  these  days  of  degenerate  fiction." 

— COMMERCIAL  ADVERTISER,  NEW  YORK. 

"One  of  her  best  stories.  It  has  all  the  qualities  which  have  won  her  popularity  in  the 
past." — SENTINEL,  MILWAUKEE. 

"A  well-written  and  vigorous  story." — OBSERVER,  NEW  YORK. 

"  It  is  a  strong  story,  thoroughly  well  constructed,  .  .  .  with  the  characters  very 
skilfully  handled.  .  .  .  Altogether  the  story  is  far  above  the  ordinary,  and  bids  fair  to 
be  one  of  the  most  successful  of  the  opening  season." — COMMERCIAL,  BUFFALO. 

"  Edna  Lyall  .  .  .  has  added  another  excellent  volume  to  the  number  of  her  ro- 
mances. ...  It  sustains  the  reputation  of  the  author  for  vigorous  writing  and  graceful 
depicting  of  life,  both  in  the  peasant's  cabin  and  the  noble's  hall.'* 

— OBSERVER,  UTICA,  NEW  YORK. 

"  Miss  Lyall's  novel  is  one  of  unflagging  interest,  written  in  that  clear,  virile  style,  with 
its  gentle  humor  and  dramatic  effectiveness,  that  readers  well  know  and  appreciate.  .  .  . 
On  many  pages  of  the  story  the  writer  reveals  her  sympathetic  admiration  for  Ireland  and 
the  Irish.  '  Wayfaring  Men  '  is  a  literary  tonic  to  be  warmly  welcomed  and  cheerfully  com- 
mended as  an  antidote  to  much  of  the  unhealthy,  morbid,  and  enervating  fiction  of  the  day." 

— PRESS,  PHILADELPHIA. 

"  The  author  has  made  a  pretty  and  interesting  love-story,  ...  a  truthful  picture  of 
modern  stage  life,  and  a  thoroughly  human  story  that  holds  the  interest  to  the  end." 

— TRIBUNE,  CHICAGO. 

"  It  is  a  story  that  you  will  enjoy,  because  it  does  not  start  out  to  reform  the  world  in  less 
than  five  hundred  pages,  only  to  wind  up  by  being  suppressed  by  the  government.  It  is  a 
bright  story  of  modern  life,  and  it  will  be  enjoyed  by  those  who  delighted  in  '  Donovan," 
'  We  Two,  and  other  books  by  this  author."— CINCINNATI  TRIBUNE. 

"A  new  book  by  Edna  Lyall  is  sure  of  a  hearty  welcome.  '  Wayfaring  Men'  will  not 
disappoint  any  of  her  admirers.  It  has  many  of  the  characteristics  of  her  earlier  and  still 
popular  books.  It  is  a  story  of  theatrical  life,  with  which  the  author  shows  an  unusually 
extensive  and  sympathetic  acquaintance." — NEW  ORLEANS  PICAYUNE. 

"  Characterized  by  the  same  charming  simplicity  of  style  and  realism  that  won  for 
'  Donovan'  and  '  Knight  Errant '  their  popularity.  .  .  .  Miss  Lyall  has  made  no  attempt 
to  create  dramatic  situations,  though  it  is  so  largely  a  tale  of  stage  life,  but  has  dealt  with 
the  trials  and  struggles  of  an  actor's  career  with  an  insight  and  delicacy  that  are  truly  pleas- 
ing."— THE  ARGONAUT,  SAN  FRANCISCO. 

"  Is  a  straightforward,  interesting  story,  in  which  people  and  things  theatrical  have 
much  to  do.  The  hero  is  an  actor,  young  and  good,  and  the  heroine— as  Miss  Lyall's  hero- 
ines are  sure  to  be — is  a  real  woman,  winning  and  lovable.  There  is  enough  excitement  in 
the  book  to  please  romance-lovers,  and  there  are  no  problems  to  vex  the  souls  of  those  who 
love  a  story  for  the  story's  sake.  It  will  not  disappoint  the  large  number  of  persons  who 
have  learned  to  look  forward  with  impatient  expectation  to  the  publication  of  Miss  Lyall's 
'  next  novel'  '  Wayfaring  Men '  is  sure  of  a  wide  and  a  satisfied  reading." 

— WOMANKIND,  SPRINGFIELD,  OHIO. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVE.,  NEW  YORK. 


HOPE    THE    HERMIT 

A  ROMANCE  OF   BORROWDALE. 

BY  EDNA  LYALL, 

AUTHOR    OF    "  DOREEN,"  "WAYFARING   MEN,"  ETC. 


Crown  8vo,  cloth,  ornamental,  $1  .50. 


•'  When  Edna  Lyall  wrote  this  book  she  stepped  into  the  front  rank  of  living:  novelists. 
It  exemplifies  the  finest  type  of  historical  romance,  which  is,  of  course,  the  highest  form  of 
fictious  literature.  The  scene  of  the  story  is  one  of  the  loveliest  which  could  have  been 
chosen,  the  lake  region  of  England.  .  .  .  Her  story  is  full  of  life  and  incident,  and  at 
the  same  time  conveys  lessons  of  high  morality.  .  .  .  Altogether  this  is  one  of  the 
healthiest,  purest,  best,  and  most  powerful  romances  in  the  whole  range  of  English 
literature." — LIVING  CHURCH,  CHICAGO. 

"  Miss  Bayly  ...  by  careful  examination  of  her  authorities  has  been  able  to  con- 
struct an  uncommonly  good  romance  of  the  days  when  brother's  hand  was  against  brother. 
It  is  distinctly  good  work— a  stirring  story  and  in  every  way  creditable  to  the  author." 

— PUBLIC  OPINION,  NEW  YORK. 

"  The  characters  are  well  drawn,  never  mere  puppets.  There  is  a  coherent,  well- 
thought-out,  and  carefully  developed  plot,  and  the  style  is  clear  and  straightforward.  The 
story  is  wholesome  and  interesting,  and  much  better  worth  reading  than  a  good  many  of 
the  so-called  'stories  of  adventure.'  " — BEACON,  BOSTON. 

"  There  are  few  novelists  of  the  present  day  whose  writings  are  better  known  and  liked 
than  those  of  Edna  Lyall.  They  are  always  clean,  pure  and  wholesome,  and  delightful  read- 
ing. The  latest, '  Hope  the  Hermit,'  deals  with  her  favorite  period,  the  seventeenth  century. 
We  have  the  revolution,  the  accession  of  William  and  Mary,  and  the  Jacobite  plots,  and 
among  the  real  characters  introduced  are  Archbishop  Tillotson,  Lady  Temple  and  George 
Fox,  the  Quaker.  .  .  .  The  story  ends  as  all  love  stories  should,  to  be  perfectly  satisfactory 
to  the  average  novel  reader,  and  '  Hope  the  Hermit '  will  find  many  readers,  who  are  fond 
of  a  good  story  well  told." — ADVERTISER,  PORTLAND,  ME. 

"  She  is  quite  at  home  with  her  theme.  .  .  .  It  is  a  fine  historical  novel,  admirably 
written,  and  one  of  her  best  books." — LITERARY  WORLD,  BOSTON. 

"...  is  one  of  those  delightful  stories  that  have  made  the  author  very  popular 
and  that  one  can  take  up  with  the  absolute  certainty  of  finding  nothing  unclean  or  repel- 
lent. It  is  a  clear,  strong,  well-designed,  refreshing  story,  based  upon  scenes  and  events 
in  the  days  of  William  and  Mary  of  England — days  when  a  man  could  hardly  trust  his  own 
brother,  and  when  sons  were  on  one  side  in  a  rebellion,  and  the  father  on  the  other.  .  .  . 
Many  of  the  situations  are  very  exciting,  the  characters  are  admirably  drawn,  and  the  whole 
telling  of  the  story  is  entertaining,  grateful  and  artistic.  We  regard  it  as  quite  as  good  as 
1  Donovan,'  and  the  other  popular  stories  by  the  same  author." — BUFFALO  COMMERCIAL. 

"  Miss  Bayly  has  kept  her  pages  clean  and  white.  The  book  is  preeminently  suitable 
to  the  shelves  of  a  circulating  library,  as  well  as  to  the  reading-table  under  the  family  lamp. 
It  not  only  entertains,  but  gives  historical  data  in  a  pleasantly  impressive  manner  .  .  . 
we  have,  notwithstanding  a  few  extravagances,  a  very  fascinating  story,  enlivened  by  the 
admitted  license  of  the  writer  of  romance." — HOME  JOURNAL,  NEW  YORK. 

"  This  latest  work  of  Miss  Bayly  has  all  the  qualities  which  have  won  her  popularity  in 
the  past.  The  book  should  have  a  considerable  vogue,  appealing,  as  it  does,  not  only  to 
those  who  like  quick  action,  plenty  of  adventure,  and  much  picturesqueness,  but  also  to 
those  who  have  a  cultivated  literary  palate." — DISPATCH,  RICHMOND,  VA. 

"...  is  one  of  the  best  specimens  of  Edna  Lyall's  talent  for  telling  a  good  story 
in  engaging  style.  .  .  .  The  reader's  attention  is  held  throughout." 

— PRESS,  PHILADELPHIA. 

"  There  is  much  in  this  book  to  commend  it.  It  is  original  and  has  great  activity. 
.  .  .  Miss  Lyall  possesses  literary  talent,  and  her  style  is  clear,  and,  to  one  unfamiliar 
with  her  writings,  this  latest  production  will  be  a  delightful  treat.  The  reader  will  put  it 
do*wn  delighted  with  the  story,  refreshed  by  the  study  of  the  merits  and  faults  of  its  charac- 
ters, and  cogitating  upon  the  great  events  which,  during  the  making  of  English  history, 
followed  quickly  one  upon  another  toward  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century." 

— PICAYUNE,  NEW  ORLEANS. 


LONGMANS,  GBEEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  PIFTH  AYE.,  NEW  YORK, 


HEART  OF  THE   WORLD. 

A    STORY    OF    MEXICAN    ADVENTURE. 

BY  H.  RIDER  HAGGARD, 

AtrmoM  OF  "SHK,"  UMONTEZUMA'S  DAUGHTER,"  "THB  PEOPLE  or  THK  MIST,"  KTC. 


With  13  full-page  Illustrations  by  Amy  Sawyer. 
1  2mo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1.25. 


"  The  adventures  of  Ignatio  and  his  white  friend  will  compare  for  strangeness  with  any 
that  the  writer  has  imagined.  And  the  invention  of  the  city  and  people  of  thr  heart,  of  the 
secret  order,  with  its  ritual  and  history,  and  the  unforeseen  crisis  of  the  tate,  shows  that  the 
quality  that  most  distinguishes  the  author's  former  works  is  still  his  in  abundance.  .  .  . 
The  tale  as  a  whole  is  so  effective  that  we  willingly  overlook  its  improbability,  and  so  novel 
that  even  those  who  have  read  all  of  Rider  Haggard's  former  works  will  still  find  something 
surprising  in  this." — THB  CRITIC. 

*'  Here  are  strange  adventures  and  wonderful  heroisms.  The  scene  is  laid  in  Mexico. 
The  story  rehearses  the  adventures  of  an  athletic  Englishman  who  loves  and  weds  an 
Indian  princess.  There  are  marvelous  descriptions  of  the  '  City  of  the  Heart,'  a  mysteri- 
ous town  hemmed  in  by  swamps  and  unknown  mountains." 

— COMMERCIAL  ADVERTISER,  NEW  YORK. 

"  Has  a  rare  fascination,  and  in  using  that  theme  Mr.  Haggard  has  not  only  hit  upon 
a  story  of  peculiar  charm,  but  he  has  also  wrought  out  a  story  original  and  delightful  to 
even  the  most  jaded  reader  of  the  novel  of  incident." — ADVERTISER,  BOSTON. 

"Tt  is  a  fascinating  tale,  and  the  reader  will  not  want  to  put  the  book  down  till  he  has 
read  the  last  word." — PICAYUNE,  NKW  ORLEANS. 

"The  lorersof  Rider  Haggard's  glowing  works  have  no  reason  to  complain  of  his  latest 
book.  .  .  .  The  story  is,  all  in  all,  one  of  the  most  entertaining  of  the  author's  whole 
list."— TRAVELLER,  BOSTON. 

"  In  its  splendor  of  description,  weirdness  of  imagery,  its  astonishing  variety  of  detail, 
and  the  love  story  which  blends  with  history  and  fantasy,  the  book  without  doubt  is  a 
creation  distinct  from  previous  tales.  Maya,  the  Lady  of  the  Heart,  is  an  ideal  character. 
.  .  .  Interest  is  sustained  throughout." — POST,  CHICAGO. 

"The  success  of  Mr.  Haggard's  stories  consists  in  the  spirit  of  adventure  which  runs 
through  them,  in  their  rapid  succession  of  incidents,  in  the  bustle  which  animates  their 
characters,  and  in  the  trying  situations  in  which  they  are  placed.  .  .  .  this  last  story 
.  .  .  introduces  his  readers  ...  to  a  comparatively  new  field  of  fiction  in  the  evolu- 
tion of  an  ancient  Aztec  tradition  concerning  the  concealed  existence  of  a  wonderful  Golden 
City.  .  .  ."—MAIL  AND  EXPRESS,  NEW  YORK. 

"  A  thrilling  story  of  adventure  in  Mexico.  It  is  doubtful  if  he  has  surpassed  in  vivid 
coloring  his  delineation  of  the  character  of 'Maya.'  This  work  is  really  a  notable  addition 
to  the  great  body  of  romance  with  which  his  name  is  associated." — PRESS,  PHILADELPHIA. 

"  This  romance  is  really  one  of  the  best  he  has  given  us."— TIMES,  PHILADELPHIA. 

"  When  the  love  of  romance  shall  die  in  the  human  heart  we  may  bid  farewell  to  all  that 
<s  best  in  fiction.  ...  In  this  story  we  have  the  same  reckless  dash  of  imagination  and 
the  same  gorgeous  profusion  of  barbaric  scenes  and  startling  adventure  which  have  always 
characterized  Mr.  Haggard's  works."  — INDEPPNDRNT,  NFW  YORK. 

"  His  latest,  and  one  of  his  most  powerful  stories.  It  shows  the  same  trenchant,  effective 
way  of  dealing  with  his  story  ;  and  the  same  power  in  open,  startling  situations.  It  will 
pve  the  reader  some  new  idea  of  that  ancient  people,  the  Aztecs,  as  well  as  of  the  more  mod- 
TO  Mexicans.  It  is  as  strong  as  '  King  Solomon's  Mines.1  " — TIMES,  HARTFORD. 


LONGMANS,  GBEEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  IIITE  AVE,,  NEW  YOBK. 


MONTEZUMA'S    DAUGHTER. 

BY  H.  RIDER  HAGGARD, 

AUTHOR  OF  "  SHE,"  "  ALLAN  QUATERMAIN,"  "  NADA  THK  LXLT,"  ET& 


With  24  full-page  Illustrations  and  Vignette  by  Maurice 
Greiffenhagen.     Crown  Svo,  Cloth,  $1.25. 

"  Adventures  that  stir  the  reader's  blood  and,  like  magic  speils,  hold  his  attention  with 
power  so  strong  that  only  the  completion  of  the  novel  can  satisfy  his  interest.  ...  In 
this  novel  the  motive  of  revenge  is  treated  with  a  subtle  power  .  .  .  this  latest  production 
of  Mr.  Haggard  blends  with  the  instruction  of  the  historical  novel  the  charm  of  a  splendid 
romance.'' — PUBLIC  OPINION. 

"  Mr.  Haggard  has  done  nothing  better  ...  it  may  well  be  doubted  if  he  has  ever 
done  anything  half  so  good.  The  tale  it  one  of  the  good,  old-fashioned  sort,  filled  with  the 
elements  of  romance  and  adventure,  and  it  moves  on  from  one  thrilling  situation  to  another 
with  a  celerity  and  verisimilitude  that  positively  fascinate  the  reader.  .  .  .  The  story  is 
told  with  astonishing  variety  of  detail,  and  in  its  main  lines  keeps  close  to  historical  truth. 
The  author  has  evidently  written  with  enthusiasm  and  entire  love  of  his  theme,  and  the  result 
is  a  really  splendid  piece  of  romantic  literature.  The  illustrations,  by  Maurice  Greiffenhagen, 
are  admirable  in  spirit  and  technique." — BOSTON  BEACON. 

"  Has  a  good  deal  of  the  quality  that  lent  such  interest  to  '  King  Solomon's  Mines'  and 
'  Allan  Quatermain.'  .  .  .  England,  Spain,  and  the  country  which  is  now  Mexico  afford 
the  field  of  the  story,  and  a  great  number  of  most  romantic  and  blood-stirring  activities  occur 
in  each  ...  a  successful  story  well  constructed,  full  of  devious  and  exciting  action, 
and  we  believe  that  it  will  find  a  multitude  of  appreciative  readers." — SUN,  N.  V. 

'  It  is  a  tale  of  adventure  and  romance,  with  a  fine  historical  setting  and  with  a.  vivid 
reproduction  of  the  manners  and  people  of  the  age.  The  plot  is  handled  with  dexterity  and 
skill,  and  the  reader's  interest  is  always  seen.  There  is,  it  should  also  be  noted,  nothing  like 
Ailgar  sensationalism  in  the  treatment,  and  the  literary  quality  is  sound  throughout. 

Among  the  very  best  stories  of  love,  war,  and  romance  that  have  been  written." 

— THE  OUTLOOK. 

"  Is  the  latest  and  best  of  that  popular  writer's  works  of  fiction.  It  enters  a  new 
field  not  before  touched  by  previous  tales  from  the  same  author.  In  its  splendor  of  descrip- 
tion, weirdness  of  imagery,  and  wealth  of  startling  incidents  it  rivals  '  King  Solomon's  Mines ' 
and  other  earlier  stones,  but  shows  superior  strength  in  many  respects,  and  presents  novelty 
of  scene  that  must  win  new  »nd  more  enduring  fame  for  its  talented  creator.  .  .  .  The 
analysis  of  human  motives  and  emotions  is  more  subtle  in  this  work  than  in  any  previous 
production  by  Mr.  Haggard.  The  story  will  generally  be  accorded  highest  literary  rank 
among  the  author's  works,  and  will  prove  of  fascinating  interest  to  a  host  of  readers." 

— MINNEAPOLIS  SPECTATOR. 

"  Is  full  of  the  magnificence  of  the  Aztec  reign,  and  is  quite  as  romantic  and  unbelievable 
as  the  most  fantastic  of  his  earlier  creations." — BOOK  BUYER. 

"We  should  be  disposed  to  rank  this  volume  next  to  'King  Solomon's  Mines'  in  order 
of  interest  and  merit  among  the  author's  works." — LITERARY  WORLD,  BOSTON. 

"  It  is  decidedly  the  most  powerful  and  enjoyable  book  that  Mr.  Rider  Haggard  has 
written,  with  the  single  exception  of  '  Jess.'  " — ACADFMY. 

"  Mr.  Haggard  has  rarely  done  anything  better  than  this  romantic  and  interesting  narra- 
tive. Throughout  the  story  we  are  hurried  from  one  thrilling  experience  to  another,  and  the 
whole  book  is  written  at  a  level  of  sustained  passion,  which  gives  it  a  very  absorbing  hold  on 
our  imagination.  A  special  word  of  praise  ought  to  be  given  to  the  excellent  illustrations." 

— DAILY  TELEGRAPH. 

"  Perhaps  the  best  of  all  the  author's  stories. 

The  great  distinguishing  quality  of  Rider  Haggard  is  this  magic  power  of  seizing  and 
holding  his  readers  so  that  they  become  absorbed  and  abstracted  from  all  earthly  things  while 
th^ir  eyes  devour  the  page.  ...  A  romance  must  have  '  grip.'  ...  This  romance 
possesses  the  quality  of  'grip'  in  an  eminent  degree." — WALTER  BKSANT  in  the  AUTHOR. 

"  The  story  is  both  graphic  and  exciting,  .  .  .  and  tells  of  the  invasion  of  Cortes ; 
but  there  are  antecedent  passages  in  England  and  Spain,  for  the  hero  is  an  Knylish  adven- 
turer who  finds  his  way  through  Spain  to  Mexico  on  a  vengeful  quest.  The  vengeance  is  cer- 
tainly satisfactory,  but  it  is  not  reached  until  the  hero  has  had  as  surprising  a  series  of  perils 
And  •»«*»pes  as  even  the  fertile  imagination  of  the  author  ever  devised."— DIAL,  CHICAGO 


LONGMANS,  GBEEN,  &  CO,,  91-93  ITFTH  AYE.,  NEW  YOKE. 


JOAN  HASTE. 


A  NOVEL. 
BY  H.  RIDER  HAGGARD, 

AUTHOR  OF   "SHE,"    li  HEART   OF  THE   WORLD,"    "THE   PEOPLE   OP  THE   MIST,"    ETC.,    ETC. 


With  2O  full-page  Illustrations  by  F.  S.  Wilson. 
1  2mo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1.25. 


"  It  is  less  adventurous  in  theme,  the  tone  is  more  quiet,  and  the  manner  more 
:n  keeping  with  the  so-called  realistic  order  of  fiction  than  anything-  Mr.  Haggard  has 
heretofore  published.  '  Joan  Haste '  is  by  far  the  most  earnest,  and  in  many  ways  the 
most  impressive  work  of  Mr.  Haggard's  that  has  yet  been  printed.  The  insight  into 
character  which  it  displays  is  almost  invariably  keen  and  true.  Every  personality  in 
the  story  is  fully  alive,  and  individual  traits  of  thought  and  action  are  revealed  little 
by  little  as  the  narrative  progresses,  until  they  stand  forth  as  definite  and  consistent 
creations."— THE  BOSTON  BEACON. 

"  All  the  strong  and  striking  peculiarities  that  have  made  Mr.  Haggard's  earlier 
works  so  deservedly  popular  are  repeated  here  in  a  new  spirit.  Not  only  that,  but 
his  literary  execution  shows  an  enlarged  skill  and  betrays  the  master-hand  of  self- 
restraint  that  indicate  maturity  of  power.  His  conception  of  character  is  improved  by 
the  elimination  of  all  crudeness  and  haste,  and  his  delineations  are  consequently  closer 
to  life.  One  is  reminded  strongly  of  Dickens  in  his  admirable  drawing  of  minor  char- 
acters. Mrs.  Bird  is  such  a  character.  .  .  .  The  illustrations  of  the  book  are  nu- 
merous and  strikingly  good.  Many  of  the  scenes  are  intensely  dramatic,  and  move  the 
feelings  to  the  higher  pitch.  .  .  .  Even  in  the  little  concerns  of  the  story  the  wealth 
of  its  imagination  appears,  glowing  in  the  warmth  of  its  unstinted  creations.  There  is 
a  splendor  in  his  description,  a  weird  spirit  in  his  imagery,  a  marvelous  variety  of 
detail,  and  at  all  points  a  creative  force  that  give  a  perpetual  freshness  and  newness  to 
the  fiction  to  which  he  gives  his  powers.  To  take  up  one  of  his  fascinating  books  is 
to  finish  it.  and  this  story  of  '  Joan  Haste  '  is  not  to  be  outdone  by  the  best  of  them  all. 
The  strength,  emphasis,  and  vigor  of  his  style  as  well  as  of  his  treatment  is  to  be 
credited  to  none  but  superior  gifts  and  powers.  .  .  .  'Joan  Haste'  will  become 
the  favorite  of  everybody."— BOSTON  COURIER. 

"  Mr.  Haggard's  new  story  is  a  sound  and  pleasing  example  of  modern  English 
fiction  ...  a  book  worth  reading.  ...  Its  personages  are  many  and  well 
contrasted,  and  all  reasonably  human  and  interesting." — NEW  YORK  TIMES. 

"  In  this  pretty,  pathetic  story  Mr.  Haggard  has  lost  none  of  his  true  art.  .  .  .  ' 
In  every  respect  'Joan  Haste"  contains  masterly  literary  work  of  which  Mr.  Haggard 
has  been  deemed  incapable  by  some  of  his  former  critics.  Certainly  no  one  will  call 
his  latest  book  weak  or  uninteresting,  while  thousands  who  enjoy  a  well-told  story  of 
tragic,  but  true  love,  will  pronounce  'Joan  Haste '  a  better  piece  of  work  than  Mr. 
Haggard's  stories  of  adventure." — BOSTON  ADVERTISER. 

"  This  story  is  full  of  startling  incidents.    It  is  intensely  interesting." 

— CLEVELAND  GAZETTE. 

"  The  plot  thickens  with  the  growth  of  the  story,  which  is  one  of  uncommon  interest 
and  pathos.  The  book  has  the  advantage  of  the  original  illustrations." 

— CLEVELAND  WORLD. 

"'Joan  Haste'  is  really  a  good  deal  more  than  the  ordinary  novel  of  English 
country  life.  It  is  the  best  thing  Haggard  has  done.  There  is  some  character  sketch- 
ing in  it  that  is  equal  to  anything  of  this  kind  we  have  had  recently." 

— COURIER,  LINCOLN,  NEB. 

"  In  this  unwonted  field  he  has  done  well.  'Joan  Haste  '  is  so  far  ahead  of  his  for- 
mer works  that  it  will  surprise  even  those  who  have  had  most  confidence  in  his  ability. 

To  those  who  rend  Thomas  Hardy's  '  Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles  '  the  atmosphere 
and  incidents  of  'Joan  Haste"  will  seem  familiar.  It  is  written  along  much  the  same 
lines,  and  in  this  particular  it  might  be  accused  of  a  lack  of  originality ;  but  Haggard 
ha~come  dangerously  close  to  beating  Hardy  in  his  own  field.  Hardy's  coarseness  is 
missing,  but  Hardy's  power  is  excelled." — MUNSEY'S  MAGAZINE. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  00..  91-93  PUTS  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


THE    WIZARD. 

BY  H.  RIDER  HAGGARD, 

AUTHOR  OF  "SHE,"  "  KING  SOLOMON'S  MINES,"  "  JOAN  HASTE,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


With  19  full-page  Illustrations  by  Charles  Kerr. 
Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1.25. 

"  I  owe  an  exciting,  delightful  evening  once  more  to  a  pen — say  a  voice — which 
has  held  me  a  willing  prisoner  in  a  grasp  of  iron.  It  is  now  ten  years  ago,  I  think, 
since  I  gave  Mr.  Rider  Haggard  my  opinion  that  for  the  rest  of  his  life  he  would  have 
'  She  '  always  with  him  to  be  compared  with  what  might  follow.  That  incomparable 
romance,  indeed,  has  never  been  surpassed  by  any  living  writer.  Rider  Haggard  is 
the  possessor  of  an  imagination  stronger,  more  vivid,  more  audacious  than  is  found  in 
any  other  writer  of  the  time.  I  say  this  in  order  to  introduce  his  latest  work,  '  The 
Wizard.'  It  is  only  a  short  tale— too  short — but  it  shows  imaginative  power  that  makes 
it  worthy  to  follow  after  '  She.'  " — SIR  WALTER  BESANT,  in  "  THE  QUEEN." 

"  The  scene  of  this  thrilling  story  is  laid  in  Africa,  but  in  many  respects  it  is  a  new 
departure  for  the  writer.  .  .  .  has  never  written  anything  more  pathetic  or  with 
greater  force  than  this  tale  of  a  missionary  venture  and  a  martyr's  death.  The  '  Pass- 
ing Over  '  is  told  with  a  simple  beauty  of  language  which  recalls  the  last  passages  in 
the  life  of  the  martyred  Bishop  Hannington.  As  for  the  improbabilities,  well,  they  are 
cleverly  told,  and  we  are  not  afraid  to  say  that  we  rather  like  them  ;  but  Haggard  has 
never  achieved  a  conception  so  beautiful  as  that  of  Owen,  or  one  that  he  has  clothed 
with  so  great  a  semblance  of  life." — PACIFIC  CHURCHMAN,  SAN  FRANCISCO. 

"  '  The  Wizard  '  is  one  of  his  most  vivid  and  brilliant  tales.  Miiacles  are  no  new 
things  in  the  frame-work  used  by  the  writers  of  fiction,  but  no  one  has  attempted  just 
the  use  of  them  which  Haggard  makes  in  this  novel.  It  is  so  entirely  new,  so  abso- 
lutely in  line  with  the  expressed  beliefs  of  devout  folk  everywhere,  that  it  ought  to 
strike  a  responsive  chord  in  the  popular  heart  as  did  '  Ben  Hur,'  and  should  be  equally 
successful." — BROOKLYN  DAILY  EAGLE. 

"  Mr.  Haggard  gives  full  play  in  the  history  of  the  conversion  of  the  Son  of  Fire 
to  his  strong  imagination,  and  he  has  succeeded  admirably  in  conveying  an  earnest 
religious  lesson,  while  telling  one  of  his  most  exciting  and  entertaining  stories." 

— BEACON,  BOSTON. 

"It  is  to  be  read  at  one  sitting,  without  resisting  that  fascination  which  draws  you 
on  from  one  to  another  critical  moment  of  the  story,  to  resolve  some  harrowing  doubt 
or  dilemma.  .  .  .  Hokosa,  the  wizard,  whose  art  proved  at  first  so  nearly  fatal  to 

Christ!; 
pictu 

— PICAYUNE,  NEW  ORLEANS. 

'  It  has  all  the  spirit  and  movement  of  this  popular  author's  finest  work." 

— EVENING  BULLETIN,  PHILADELPHIA. 

"  A  brilliant  story  truly,  and  here  and  there  alive  with  enthusiasm  and  fire.  Mr« 
Haggard  describes  savage'  combats  with  rare  skill,  and,  somehow,  we  revel  with  hinj 
when  he  shows  us  legion  after  legion  of  untamed  children  of  nature  fighting  to  the  grim 
death  with  uncouth  weapons  yet  with  as  dauntless  a  courage  as  the  best  trained  soldiers 
of  Europe.  It  may  be  wrong  for  him  to  stir  up  our  savage  instincts,  but,  after  all,  £ 
healthy  animalism  is  not  to  be  scoffed  at  in  any  breed  of  men." — NEW  YORK  HERALD. 


"  Is  as  full  of  adventure  as  the  most  ardent  admirer  of  tales  of  courage  and  daring 
could  desire.  As  its  title  implies,  it  portrays  a  character  who  is  an  adept  in  witch- 
craft, cunning,  and  knowledge  of  human  nature.  There  is  a  distinct  religious  element 
throughout  the  book  ;  indeed,  but  for  its  religious  motive  there  would  be  no  story." 

— ST.  Louis  REPUBLICAN. 


LONGMANS,  GKEEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FITTH  AVE.,  NEW  TOKK. 


SWALLOW 


A    STORY    OF    THE    GREAT    TREK 
BY  H.    RIDER  HAGGARD 

AUTHOR  OF  "  SHE,"  "  KING  SOLOMON'S  MINKS,"  "  JOAN  HASTK,''  "  THE  WIZARD,"  ETC.,  ETC. 

With  12  full-page  Illustrations.    Crown  8vo,  Cloth, 
Ornamental,  $1.50 

•'  The  hand  of  the  author  of  '  She  '  has  not  lost  its  cunning.  Indeed,  we  think  it 
will  be  the  verdict  of  most  readers  of  'Swallow  '  that,  great  as  Conan  Doyle  and 
Stanley  Weyman  are  in  the  field  of  romance,  in  the  art  of  sheer,  unadulterated  story- 
telling, Rider  Haggard  is  the  master  of  them  all.  'Swallow'  is  an  African  story,  a 
tale  of  the  Boers  and  Kaffirs  and  Zulus,  and  it  grips  the  attention  of  the  reader  from 
the  very  beginning  and  holds  it  steadily  to  the  end.  The  tale  is  told  by  an  old  Boer 
woman, 'the  Vrouw  Botmar,' and  it  is  a  masterpiece  of  narration.  .  .  .  The  finest 
portrait  of  all  is  that  of  the  little  Kaffir  witch  doctoress,  Sihamba,  who  will  live  in  the 
reader's  memory  long  after  he  has  closed  the  book,  and  who  is  a  worthy  companion  of 
the  great  Umslopogaas  himself.  Altogether  *  Swallow '  is  a  remarkable  romance." 

— CHARLESTON  NEWS. 

"  It  is  a  slashing,  dashing  .  .  .  romance  of  Boers  and  Kaffirs  in  South  Africa  that 
Rider  Haggard  has  given  his  admirers  under  the  title,  'Swallow.'  The  title  is  the  Kaffir 
name  for  the  charming  Boer  maiden.  Suzanne  Botmar.  .  .  'Swallow'  is  one  of 
those  utterly  impossible  and  yet  altogether  engrossing  tales  that  Rider  Haggard  knows 
so  well  how  to  weave.  He  is  always  at  best  among  the  kloofs  and  kopjes  of  South 
Africa,  and  his  many  admirers  will  be  delighted  to  know  that  he  has  returned  to  the 
field  of  his  early  successes." — CHICAGO  TRIBUNE. 

"The  Englishman's  long  pursuit  of  his  bride  ;  the  manner  in  which  she  escaped 
from  Swart  Piet  only  to  encounter  as  great  perils  in  her  wanderings,  and  how  she 
dwelt  among  savages  for  two  years,  with  Sihamba,  the  little  witch  doctoress  and  ruler 
of  the  Tribe  of  the  Mountains,  gives  Mr.  Haggard  ample  opportunity  to  display  his 
ingenuity  as  a  plot-maker,  and  illustrates  his  wonderful  powers  of  dramatic  narration. 
The  story  is  crowded  with  incident  leading  up  to  the  tiagic  encounter  on  the  cliff 
between  Ralph  and  Swart  Piet  and  the  torture  and  death  of  Sihamba.  Lovers  of  the 
wild  and  adventurous,  subtly  touched  with  the  supernatural,  will  find  'Swallow' 
quite  to  their  liking."—  DETKOIT  FKEE  PRESS. 

"  A  thrilling  tale,  brimming  over  with  adventure,  and  full  of  the  savage  loves  and 
hates  and  fightings  of  uncivilized  peoples.  ...  In  such  stories  of  wild  adventure 
Rider  Haggard  has  no  equal,  and  "  Swallow  '  will  be  read  with  the  unflagging  interest 
we  have  given  to  the  author's  other  romances." — PICAYUNE,  NEW  ORLEANS,  LA. 

"  It  is  justly  considered  one  of  the  very  best  of  this  author's  productions.  ...  It 
is  unquestionably  a  very  entertaining  story  of  Boer  life." — HARTFORD  POST. 

"  A  story,  which  once  begun,  must  be  read  to  the  end." — NEW  YORK  TRIBUNE. 

"  The  interest  grows  as  one  goes  on,  and  at  the  close  it  is  at  least  an  open  question 
whether  he  has  ever  done  a  better  piece  of  work.  ...  It  may  safely  be  said  that 
few  who  begin  the  story  will  fail  to  read  on  with  growing  interest  to  the  end,  and  that 
most  will  part  from  the  characters  with  genuine  regret." — HARTFORD  TIMES. 

"  One  of  the  things  Rider  Haggard  can  always  contrive  to  do  is  to  tell  a  thrilling 
tale,  to  keep  his  readers  trembling  on  the  verge  of  discovery  or  torn  with  anxiety  until 
the  very  last  line  of  the  book.  His  happy  hunting-ground  is  South  Africa,  and  there  is 
located  'Swallow,'  than  which  few  of  his  romances  have  been  belter  reading.  We 
find  it  preferable,  for  pur  own  part,  to  such  an  extravaganza  as  'She,'  since  it  deals 
with  people  in  whom  it  is  possible  to  take  a  more  definite  interest  than  in  savages  or 
magicians.  .  .  .  A  thrilling  and  unusual  story."— MILWAUKEE  SENTINEL. 

"  Once  more  the  African  wizard  has  waved  his  enchanted  wand  and  conjured  out 
of  the  mysterious  Dark  Continent  another  fascinating  romance.  ...  It  is  ques- 
tionable if  the  author  has  ever  produced  a  story  in  all  respects  better  than  this." 

—PHILADELPHIA  PRESS. 


LONGMANS,  GBEEN,&  00.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YOEK. 


THE  CHEVALIER  D'AURIAC. 

A  ROMANCE. 
BY  S.  LEVETT  YEATS. 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  HONOUR  OF  SAVELLI,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


1  2mo,  cloth,  ornamental,  $1.25. 


"  The  story  is  full  of  action,  it  is  alive  from  cover  to  cover,  and  is  so  compact  with  thrill- 
ing adventure  that  there  is  no  room  for  a  dull  page.  The  chevalier  tells  his  own  story,  but 
he  is  the  most  charming  of  egoists.  He  wins  our  sympathies  from  the  outset  by  his  boyish 
naivete,  his  downright  manliness  and  bravery.  .  .  .  Not  only  has  Mr.  Yeats  written  an 
excellent  tale  of  adventure,  but  he  has  shown  a  close  study  of  character  which  does  not  bor- 
row merely  from  the  trappings  of  historical  actors,  but  which  denotes  a  keen  knowledge  of 

human  nature,  and  a  shrewd  insight  into  the  workings  of  human   motives The 

fashion  of  the  period  is  kept  well  in  mind,  the  style  of  writing  has  just  that  touch  of  old- 
fashioned  formality  which  serves  to  veil  the  past  from  the  present,  and  to  throw  the  lights 
and  shadows  into  a  harmony  of  tone.  .  .  .  The  work  has  literary  quality  of  a  genuine 
sort  in  it,  which  raises  it  above  a  numerous  host  of  its  fellows  in  kind.  ' 

— BOOKMAN,  NEW  YORK. 

"...  A  story  of  Huguenot  days,  brim  full  of  action  that  takes  shape  in  plots,  sud- 
den surprises,  fierce  encounters,  and  cunning  intrigues.  The  author  is  so  saturated  with  the 
times  of  which  he  writes  that  the  story  is  realism  itself.  .  .  .  The  story  is  brilliant  and 
thrilling,  and  whoever  sits  down  to  give  it  attention  will  reach  the  last  page  with  regret." 

— GLOBE,  BOSTON. 

"...  A  tale  of  more  than  usual  interest  and  of  genuine  literary  merit.  .  .  . 
The  characters  and  scenes  in  a  sense  seem  far  removed,  yet  they  live  in  our  hearts  and  seem 
contemporaneous  through  the  skill  and  philosophic  treatment  of  the  author.  Those  men  and 
women  seem  akin  to  us ;  they  are  flesh  and  blood,  and  are  impelled  by  human  motives  as  we 
are.  One  cannot  follow  the  fortunes  of  this  hero  without  feeling  refreshed  and  benefited." 

— GLOBE-DEMOCRAT,  ST.  Louis. 

"  A  book  that  may  be  recommended  to  all  those  who  appreciate  a  good,  hearty,  rollicking 
story  of  adventure,  with  lots  of  fierce  fighting  and  a  proper  proportion  of  love-making.  .  .  . 
There  is  in  his  novel  no  more  history  than  is  necessary,  and  no  tedious  detail ;  it  is  a  story 
inspired  by,  but  not  slavishly  following,  history.  .  .  .  The  book  is  full  of  incident,  and 
from  the  first  chapter  to  the  last  the  action  never  flags.  ...  In  the  Chevalier  the  author 
has  conceived  a  sympathetic  character,  for  d'  Auriac  is  more  human  and  less  of  a  puppet  than 
most  heroes  of  historical  novels,  and  consequently  there  are  few  readers  who  will  not  find  en- 
joyment in  the  story  of  his  thrilling  adventures.  .  .  .  This  book  should  be  read  by  all 
who  love  a  good  story  of  adventures.  There  is  not  a  dull  page  in  it." — NEW  YORK  SUN. 

"A  capital  story  of  the  Dumas- Weyman  order.  .  .  .  The  first  chapters  bring  one 
right  into  the  thick  of  the  story,  and  from  thence  on  the  interest  is  unflagging.  The  Cheva- 
ker  himself  is  an  admirably  studied  character,  whose  straightforwardness  and  simplicity, 
bravery,  and  impulsive  and  reckless  chivalry,  win  the  reader's  sympathy.  D'Auriac  has 
something  of  the  intense  vitality  of  Dumas's  heroes,  and  the  delightful  improbabilities  through 
which  he  passes  so  invincibly  have  a  certain  human  quality  which  renders  them  akin  to  our 
day.  Mr.  Levett  Yeats  has  done  better  in  this  book  than  in  anything  else  he  has  written." 

— PICAYUNE,  NEW  ORLEANS. 

"  The  interest  in  the  story  does  not  lag  for  an  instant ;  all  is  life  and  action.  The  pict- 
uresque historical  setting  is  admirably  painted,  and  the  characters  are  skilfully  drawn,  espe- 
:ially  that  of  the  king,  a  true  monarch,  a  brave  soldier,  and  a  gentleman.  The  Chevalier  is 
the  typical  hero  of  romance,  fearing  nothing  save  a  stain  on  his  honor,  and  with  such  a  hero 
there  can  not  but  be  vigor  and  excitement  in  every  page  of  the  story." 

— MAIL  AND  EXPRESS,  NEW  YORK. 

"  As  a  story  of  adventure,  pure  and  simple,  after  the  type  originally  seen  in  Dumas's 
'Three  Musketeers,'  the  book  is  well  worthy  of  high  praise." — OUTLOOK,  NEW  YORK. 

"  We  find  all  the  fascination  of  mediaeval  France,  which  have  made  Mr.  Weyman's  stories 
such  general  favorites.  .  .  .  We  do  not  see  how  any  intelligent  reader  can  take  it  up 
without  keen  enjoyment." — LIVING  CHURCH,  CHICAGO. 


LONGMANS,  GBEEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  PITTH  AVE.,  NEW  YOEK, 


THE  HEART  OF  DENISE 

AND    OTHER    TALES. 

BY  S.  LEVETT-YEATS. 

AUTHOR  OP  "  THE  CHBTALIER  D'AURIAC,"   "  THE  HONOUR  OF  SAVBLLI,"  ETC. 


With  Frontispiece.    Crown  8vo,  cloth,  ornamental,  $1.25. 


"The  author  of  the  fascinating  and  brilliant  story  of  'The  Chevalier  d'Auriac' 
knows  the  main  roads  and  bypaths  of  the  sixteenth  century  well,  and  in  his  latest 
essay  in  romance  he  catches  the  spirit  of  the  times  he  portrays.  With  a  few  sugges- 
tive touches  a  brilliant,  somewhat  self-willed  beauty  of  the  court  is  sketched  inDenise, 
whose  flirtations,  innocent  enough  upon  her  part,  with  the  young  but  unscrupulous 
Marquis  de  Clermont,  lead  to  a  peremptory  command  on  the  part  of  the  King  for  her 
marriage,  at  three  hours'  notice,  to  Blaise  de  Lorgnac.  .  .  . 

The  story  which  gives  the  title  to  the  book  occupies  something  over  a  third  of  the 
volume.  The  remainder  is  a  collection  of  eight  short  stories,  most  of  which  are  some- 
what melodramatic  in  character,  but  all  are  brilliantly  told." 

— CHICAGO  TRIBUNE. 

"A  good  romantic  story,  graphically  told." 

— NEW  YORK  WORLD. 

"A  brief,  rapid  story  of  those  picturesque  days  when  the  Flying  Squadron  fluttered 
its  silken  sails  at  the  gay  French  court  of  which  Catherine  de  Medici  was  the  ruling 
spirit— such  is  '  The  Heart  of  Denise,'  which  may  be  praised  as  more  in  the  style  of 
'The  House  of  the  Wolf  or  'A  Gentleman  of  France  '  than  anything  Mr.  Weyman  is 
writing  nowadays."  — SENTINEL,  MILWAUKEE,  Wis. 

"A  capital  love  story.  .  .  .  It  is  a  pleasant  story  most  pleasantly  told.  The 
other  stories  in  the  book  are  of  equal  interest  ;  they  are  told  with  admirable  skill  and 
most  excellent  art."  —SATURDAY  EVENING  GAZETTE,  BOSTON. 

"  We  find  more  varieties  of  talent  than  we  remember  in  his  earlier  novels.  '  The 
Chevalier  d'Auriac  '  and  'The  Honour  of  Savelli,'  '  The  Heart  of  Denise  '  and  'The 
Captain  Moratti's  Last  Affair '  resemble  these  in  the  romantic  use  of  the  historical 
material  of  which  they  are  composed  ;  the  other  seven  display  a  wider  range  of  in- 
vention in  different  directions.  Taken  as  a  whole,  the  stories  here  are  considerably 
above  the  average  stories  of  better-known  writers  than  Mr.  Yeats." 

— MAIL  AND  EXPRESS. 

"All  of  them  are  bright,  crisp  and  taking— generally  weird  and  fanciful,  but  told 
with  an  easy  and  fluent  swing  which  imparts  a  pleasant  flavor  to  the  most  inconse- 
quential of  their  details."  —  SAN  FRANCISCO  CHRONICLE. 

"There  are  many  well-told  adventures  ....  with  a  defined  originality  and 
manner."  —  BALTIMOKB  SUN. 

"  Mr.  Yeats  writes  well ;  in  his  Indian  tales  there  is  distinct  touch  of  cleverness. 
The  story  that  gives  its  name  to  the  book  is  Weyman  all  over.  There  is  a  charming, 
if  shrewish,  heroine,  a  misjudged  hero,  a  courtly  villain,  and  the  scene  is  laid  in  the 
France  of  the  Medicis."  — JOUKNAL,  PKOVIDKNCB,  R.I. 

"The  story  of  Denise  is  interesting  and  at  times  highly  dramatic  " 

— ST.  Louis  REPUBLIC. 

"  He  has  romance  and  pretty  turn  for  dramatic  episodes.  .  .  .  'The  Captain 
Moratti's  Last  Affair1  is  a  delightful  tale  of  Southern  villainy,  and  drama,  and  the 
longest  story  in  the  book,  'The  Heart  of  Denise. '  justifies  its  length  by  its  romantic 
and  thrilling  character.  The  Indian  tales  show  that  while  Mr.  Yeats  is  far  below  Mr 
Kipling  in  the  treatment  of  the  material  to  be  found  among  the  natives,  he  is  at  any 
rate  clever  and  readable.  His  vignette  of  landscape  are  drawn  with  special  grace." 
— N.  Y.  TRIBUNE. 

LONGMANS,  GKEEN,  &  00.,  91-93  PIPTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


A     000  040  494     7 


